


Firestorm Wolves

by WashedAwayCloud (HowlingSentinel)



Series: The Many Lives of Giselle-Sophia Trevelyan [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Body Horror, Body Modification, Dragon Age Kink Meme, Edging, F/M, God Complex, Hate Sex, Hero Complex, Horror, Non-con Body Modification, Oral Sex, Power Struggle, Rough Body Play, Rough Kissing, Rough Sex, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-21
Updated: 2017-02-01
Packaged: 2018-03-08 12:05:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 21
Words: 55,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3208538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HowlingSentinel/pseuds/WashedAwayCloud
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Solas is a god, albeit a diminished god. He looks at Trevelyan and sees one of the People, even though she is human. It rankles him, and when she's unconscious following the sealing of the Breach, he casts a magic that will wreck the human's life.</p><p>I see Bioware has made canon choices, well those choices aren't here my friends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Beginning of the End

**Author's Note:**

> [ Prompt ] I've started to see more prompts/fics with Solas changing his own perspective enough that he can justify being with Trevelyan or even lots of ones where love for Lavellan causes Solas to change (settle down into nongodliness, give up his plans). What I would love to see is a fic where Solas'harel, instead of changing himself to fit the Inquisitor, changes the _Inquisitor_ …and doesn't necessarily ask their permission first.
> 
> If Solas/Trevelyan - would like to see Solas turn her into an elf. Feel free to go the full nine yards with this: confusion, body horror, Trevelyan has no idea why this is happening or WHAT or HOW. Solas may or may not be in a relationship with the Inquisitor at time of change, maybe he's playing the long game now that she's got some extra lifespan.
> 
> If Solas/Lavellan - would like to see Solas using the Fade/dreams to give her a more godly or removed perspective on events. Possibly even share memories. Would also like to see him altering her magic to make her more like the elves of Arlathan. Maybe he's got a foothold in her magic already because of the Anchor (which is MADE from his magic)?
> 
>  
> 
> PLEASE FEEL FREE TO USE YOUR ARTISTIC LICENSE, but:  
> I would prefer something darker. This is a deity exercising his will over a mortal, and the mortal isn't really getting a say. The Inquisitor SHOULD BE angry with him, assuming they ever find out he's the cause. Please don't handwave it as "in the name of love" or anything like that.

 Giselle-Sophia Trevelyan was a scholar; first and foremost, one must always remember that Lady Trevelyan, the Mage who ushered in a new Era of civilization was a scholar first, warrior second. Also, one must forever remember, that Trevelyan had been _human_.  Many retellings leave that part out, referring to her only as ‘the Mage’ and sometimes even, ‘the elf’. My dearest friend has lost all of her titles in these retellings of her life, other writers – hack writers- have all distilled her down into her barest pieces.  As her friend, I cannot and will not allow this to stand.

The Herald of Andraste, the Inquisitor of the Dragon Age Inquisition – was a human by birth. A god changed her race, petulant and intolerant as all gods seemingly are, but a goddess is the one who delivered her justice. Delivered them both their justice if the truth is to be really told. 

This is no short tale, dear readers, and it is not one for the faint of heart. Ask any veteran who lived and survived the Dragon Age, they’ll tell you that it was a time of war, but none so fierce as the Inquisitions war against the Magister known as Corypheous. The war that shook the foundations of our countries and faiths.

 

 


	2. A Mother's Spirit

The prisoner was a small thing, curiously soft spoken, with customs that both intrigued and annoyed.  From the moment she woke, she was unleashed as a weapon to help the Conclave forces reach the rift, the prisoner defied expectation. She never turned her weapon on any but the horrors that were falling from the sky. There were no noises of discomfort from her, even as the mark strained to devour her whole being.

 

The Seeker paid it little attention, but Solas watched their newest companion like a hawk. In the breath that he had grabbed her hand to the moment she reached up and pulled at the rift, he watched. He weighed her will, weighed her actions against memories of those who’d tried to hold such magic and failed. It was curious that a _quickling_ could fight so hard against magic that devoured those without focus.

 

Quicklings were all the same, all flying through life attempting to better their lots, never _looking_ , or appreciating, never really learning. But this one – he’d barely guided her when he first introduced her to how to close the rifts. A single sentence, just one movement, and her magic had flowed, grasped, pulled and mended his mistake. The apostate wasn’t even sure she realized what she’d done.

 

It was her magic that called to him, however. The strength of it, tied to the very core of her being. He felt it when she’d been sleeping after the initial blast, he felt it now as they battled pride and felt her desperately pulling at the rift, begging it to close as she fired of this spell and that to keep the soldiers alive.  It was remarkable. One hand cast magic she’d not known two hours ago, while the other abandoned her staff all together, writing glyphs and runes in the air, willing walls of fire around her allies, erecting barriers, blowing away demons that took too much interest in her.

 

And later, when she’d come to again in Haven, when the Seeker and Spy Mistress declared her Herald and the Inquisition reborn, the little wisp of a woman had taken it in stride. She embraced the title hesitantly; unsure it was wise to court a god’s wrath by naming her peer to his wife.

 

Laughable.

 

If anything, they courted his wrath, courted the wrath of that twice-damned betrayer that held the artifact that started this mess.  The Wolf was agitated, wary, and suspicious of all, even the little Herald when she woke. It would be but weeks before he was driven off, apostate that he was. Either by the Seeker or the bumbling boy of a Commander, it was no secret that they held little love for Apostatry.

 

He intended to leave, to disappear into the snow and seek out the betrayer, to reclaim his foci and seal the power once more. Yet, that slip of a girl stopped him in his plans. Once she’d been poked and prodded by every healer within Haven, once she’d explored the tiny settlement, provided arms for the troops and sent missives to her family – she came straight to him.

 

It was strange. Her grey eyes were full of wonder, rather than dismissal, that pleasingly throaty bordering on soprano voice quiet and measured as she asked her questions. So many questions, and in equal measure playful and dry answers to the queries he managed to slip in edge wise.  For a human, she was not terrible, as many of her kinsmen had already proven to be.

 

He learned her name was Giselle-Sophia, that she was from the North, as if he couldn’t tell from her radiantly golden complexion.  He learned she blushed easily, that her temper was almost impossible to rouse, yet her frustration readily reared its head and her laughter was sweeter than any berry he’d ever been privileged to partake of.

 

They walked side by side into the Hinterlands, and he watched her. Not a terrible change, but now he _saw_ her.  In the old days, Giselle could have served as a courtesan based on beauty alone. Even now, he’d wager she could have been one of the most sought after were she not a mage and so completely chaste that she practically glowed with it.

 

Elle kept herself covered – in and out of her armor. The only skin he saw was that of her face. It was as if she were a Mother in the shemlen chantry, and the Elvhen spirit god was sure he’d seen the shemlen priestesses less modestly dressed from time to time.  Not that the covering kept the world from knowing what charms Giselle possessed. The skin of her face was flawless, her breasts high and full, waist cinched either naturally or by artificial means, Solas could not tell, but her hips swelled generously and her bottom – well, he didn’t think anything could hide its roundness from the eyes of Thedas.  Even her diminutive height did not take away from her lovely features.  Diminutive height for a human – Elle was just barely shorter than Solas, but he was rather tall for an elven man.

 

For weeks, he walked by her side, ate with her, battled by her, looted corpses and quelled the misguided bloodshed between rogue mages and Templars. Their group secured part of the region after having found the chantry Mother also known as Giselle, and it was then their Herald began insisting on being called Elle or Sofia.

 

Solas couldn’t put a finger on why he was so drawn to the Herald until the Orlesian Enchanter and rapidly wild Archers joined their ranks. It was then he saw Elle withdraw, becoming aloof after encounters with the Enchanter, and so carefully mothering with the archeress that he was slapped with revelation.

 

The Herald reminded him of Mythal in her youth.  In the days when he and the Mother had been friends, banded together publicly – Elle captured that aspect of Mythal in ways that could not be adequately put into words by the mage. Mythal had a vicious streak to her, but he rarely saw it. She was the protector, the nurturer – the Mother.  Elle was remarkably similar.  In fact, were it not for the unfortunate matter of her a race -

 

Elle could have been Mythal’s _twin_.

 

Solas looked at her harder each time she came to him to speak of Elvhen myths, customs, and the Fade. He watched her that sweet, wide eyed and read cheeked mage. Listened to the tenor of her voice, relished the sincerity of her questions, bathed in her curiosity.  The bald man cherished every brush of fingers, every moment of shared silence, even if he never admitted to enjoying these things.

 

He greedily snapped up her time when he could, even ventured into the other companion’s territory from time to time to get more of than just a passing smile and good morning from her. He learned she always kept her hair hidden from view though did not know why, and hadn’t yet found the opportunity to ask.

 

The Herald was an intensely caring person, making the rounds each time they camped. He learned she would never leave a single person to die if they did not _truly_ deserve such a fate. That she went out of her way to help her chosen companions, the one and only time she refused, was when the Enchanter asked her to find tomes for a renewed circle. It had been a shocking disagreement, the loudest at the very least.

 

_“I cannot and will not help to rebuild the circles as they were, First Enchanter. You and I may have flourished within their walls, but many withered. Too many were made tranquil when all they needed was a steadier guiding hand, a more attentive teacher.”_

_“My dear, those that failed their Harrowings were too weak willed to be allowed – “_

_“To be **allowed**? Allowed what exactly, Vivienne? A life, the chance to further their training, to continue to learn how to better their defenses? Some of those made tranquil within Ostwick were healers – they could only just keep themselves alive! They had no battle experience. You speak as if the circles universally taught battle magic when you know very well they did not. Not to mention that if you showed no talent for it, you learned but the basics and were shuffled off to learn things you could control!”_

_“To take a mage that has failed their harrowing and leave them among the populace unprotected is akin to throwing a demon amongst children. They have no protection, and obviously – “_

_“Are you listening to yourself? Mages all have the will to tell a demon to go to the void and be away from them. Abominations do not happen by accident. They do not happen because a mage simply cannot say no, Vivienne. To kill the soul of each mage that simply needs more time to learn to protect themselves is disgusting.”_

_“So, you would have us all looking over our shoulders for abominations and maleficar?”_

 

_“So quickly you forget your beloved Templars. I put my faith in their holy calling to protect us should the worst happen. I put my faith in adequate teachers that see the signs **before** their pupils succumb to the sirens call. That faith did not once fail me, Vivienne. Even during the circle purges, my faith did not fail me. Perhaps you should look at your own faith and question what and who it is you find answers from.” _

That fight, that spark of defiance amidst a veritable ocean of devotion to her faith was what put the Wolf on his path. The path that nearly destroyed us all. A path that might yet see our destruction.


	3. Conversations in Taverns

“You’re of a noble line, ain’t you, Herald?” They had returned to Haven scant hours ago, the cold making color sit high on everyone’s cheeks. The Herald was no exception, and it was a lovely picture, red cheeks the only color on her golden heart shaped face.

 

“Aye, I am. I imagine you’d like to know a bit more about it?” Her tone isn’t unkind as she answers Sera’s inquiry. It’s the first question from the other elf that doesn’t have Solas growling into his soup. She reminded him of someone he’d rather not ever be reminded of.

 

“Yeah, you’re not near as prissy as most prissy pants. Is it the glow that took it away or somethin’ else?”

 

A snort is Sera’s answer for a moment as Giselle considers her stew for answers before delicately ripping a bit of her bread off and dipping it into the broth. She chews with the same delicacy, making the blonde archer wait for her answers before smiling a little sadly.

 

“I’m a mage, Sera. No chance for prissiness. I was always slanted for the chantry, but my magic came when I was six. My family has deep ties to the Chantry, the heir and spare are the only ones kept from service, really. With Henry and Kara already married, doing their family duties, the rest of us were just waiting.”

 

“Y’ got more than just them two siblings then?”

 

“Mm hm. Henry, Kara, Dominic, Jordan, Tara, Carl and then me.”

 

“How’d you manage not to get prissy even by six?”

 

“Easy – Jordan and Carl wanted to be Templars. Dominic is very scholarly, and Tara. Well, I’d be surprised if that girl ever made it into the chantry at all. Tara was my partner in crime. Our mother let us run a little wild, she hoped that when it came time to go to the chantry all our wildness would be spent. “

 

“Huh. Were you going to be a Templar too?”

 

“Oh no.” Elle’s chuckle is dark and a little empty. Glances are exchanged between the Bull and Varric, while Solas feels his brows start to creep up in surprise.  Elle had been slated to be a sister within the chantry?

 

“My mother, she had much grander plans for me. Father was focused on Jordan and Carl by the time my magic ruined everything, hoping one of them would become a Seeker and the other a Knight-commander somewhere. Mother started my lessons at three; I’d already learned my Marcher and Common alphabets, when she started me in on the Orlesian and Tevene ones. She sang the chant for me in pieces every night, making me learn them. I didn’t get lullabies after I learned the first verse by heart. She drilled the history into my head with such ferocity.”

 

Her headshakes, “Father wanted power of a military sort, Mother wanted a Grand Cleric or better out of me.  I’m sure she’s just fit to be tied that Father got his wish out of the house’s black sheep.”

 

Sera’s head tilts, her eyes flickering around the table. It was just the Inner Circle tonight, no advisors in sight.  Everyone held their breath, even Vivienne, whose mouth formed such a hard line it bleached out her lips a touch. The young elf opens her mouth, but Solas swoops in, cutting her off.

 

“If I might, Giselle, you are no sheep. That assessment is completely off, your mother should be ashamed. You’re a predator, protector. A tigress perhaps, a wolf, a lioness, even a mabari would better suit.”

 

The younger woman chokes on her wine, laughter dancing in her eyes as she turns to look down the table at him. “Serah, did you truly just liken me to a protective war dog?”

 

“As I hear it, Lady Trevelyan, Andraste had _quite_ the distinguished mabari companion.”  His lips twitch, blue eyes sparkling in that way of his when he let himself be mischievous.

 

Soft gasping laughter fills the tavern as Elle tries and fails to keep her composure. In no time, Sera is giggling as well, her initial ire over Solas interrupting her vanishing. A small smile touches the God’s mouth, though it melts away when Varric elbows him gently.

 

“Good going, Chuckles. Glow bug doesn’t need the stress of family shit right now.”

 

“Indeed, distracting her from our goal of closing the rift is the last thing any of us want.” He almost believes himself, even as Sera makes some outlandish comment and Elle is set off again, her chair creaking as she pushes herself against the back to keep her stomach from cramping up thanks to all the laughter. He’d been able to simply enjoy her company until a fortnight past, when she and Vivienne had ripped into one another.  It had changed his view of the girl.

 

Honestly, he had not expected it of Trevelyan. He saw the fierce devotion she had for the Maker and his bride. It reminded him too much of a time long past. A time he missed. Not for the abject adoration he’d been given, but for different reasons entirely. Between Giselle and the Seeker, he could not stomach humans in those early days. Now three months gone into their quest, he can tolerate only Giselle, and only begins to show a grudging respect for Pentaghast.

 

Now, however, he sees her as more than just a human. More than a talented human mage, even. Solas fancies that she’s a reborn spirit. It happened sometimes, a spirit taken to the beyond might be called to purpose and brought back. Lingering spirits might feel the spark of new life and claim it as their own re-entry into the world. Either way, to him, Elle was more than a young human noble woman that asked too many questions.

 

The evening meal passes much more smoothly after that. Varric and Bull are the first to leave, one citing he wished to check in with his chargers, the other stating he had things to write.  Next was Sera, off after a pretty barmaid that had smiled at her a touch too long for it to be meaningless. Behind her went Vivienne and Cassandra. It left Solas to walk Giselle back to her cottage, whenever it was she expressed interest in such a thing.

 

“Solas,”

 

“Herald?”

 

An annoyed look is shot at him as the younger of the pair toys with her wine cup. “Please, you know I dislike that title. I’ve no claim on being divinely touched. I’m simply – “

 

“Doing what needs to be done, yes. I do remember having that conversation, Giselle.”

 

“Elle, Solas. Elle or Sophia. I’d rather not be confused with my chantry counterpart. Lovely woman though she is, we’ve differing opinions on several matters.” She lifts the cup to her lips, sipping the tart liquid before she returns to her interrupted line of conversation. “I have questions, as always, if you will indulge me this evening.”

 

“I find nothing wrong with your questions, Elle, so it is not a matter of indulgence. However, I’ve several of my own if you’d be so kind.”

 

“Of course, Let’s start with yours, you so seldom have any,” her lips twitch into a teasing smile as she shifts in her chair, sitting back against the wood.

 

“Your hair, I’ve noticed it from time to time, when a battle rages hard enough that your coverings are ripped, is white. I cannot bring myself to believe you are anywhere nearing the age of sixty or seventy, so I find myself curious as to its origins.”

 

“Ah, so many questions about my magic tonight.” Her eyes trained on the table, but there isn’t that heavy weight on her this time. This question was simple after all.  “It was the most visible sign of my magic. Well, apart from my eyes, though many who have no idea what my family looks like assume they are natural.

 

I said tonight that I was to be handed to the Chantry when I was six. That Mother had pounded the lore into my head had taught me the Chant backwards and forwards by that point. She wanted me to be powerful, wanted me to stand out amongst the other girls who would be cloistered acolytes until our sixteenth birthdays when we could become sisters and later mothers. 

She constantly told me to be loving - maternal, to find ways to care for everyone- to guide them. That was the making of a good Revered Mother, after all. If a Mother cannot find love for her flock, then she has no hope of being diligent enough to be found worthy enough to become a Grand Cleric.

 

Honestly, had I not manifested that year, the Templars would have been invading a Chantry for me. I was set on that path, of course I was a child, I wanted to make Mother happy, to gain her praise.  Carl, Jordan and Tara were all two years older than me, and Dominic was the one that I shared lessons with, even if he was a full ten months my senior. I believe he’s a Brother, or perhaps a Templar archivist. Jordan I know became a Templar, Carl with her.

 

Anyway. It was the day of my sixth birthday and Mother had planned a little salon for me. Before that, we’d just celebrated the birthdays at home with a cake and gift or two. Mother did hate to show off what wealth we had managed to earn. Father as well, when I think of it.

 

We were standing in front of the fountain, a great fancy thing, remnants of an empire my family hasn’t had in at least an age. My grandfather’s grandfather had it made; it was to honor his wife, if I remember correctly. It was terribly ornate, deep enough to grow the most beautiful lilies in.

 

My siblings and I were playing. Jordan, thinking she would be quite the little Jester, decided to push me in. I was six, now, and no one had taken the time yet to teach me to swim.  I was also quite short for a child of six, and I thought I was going to die. I panicked, screaming my little head off, which set off my siblings and mother.

 

Carl says I flew from the fountain, eyes glazed white, steaming while the fountain itself was dryer than a bone that was left out. He says my hair was raven black before that day and my eyes deep brown. But when I came back to myself, my eyes were this grey color, hair stark white.  Mother sent word to the Chantry and two days later a group of my cousins came to escort me to the Tower.”  Her shoulders roll as she finishes her story.

 

The little mage is years over any resentment she might have harbored her family – if she ever harbored any at all. But Solas, his blood roils with anger, with hatred for the Trevelyan’s of Ostwick. 

 

“No child should be sent to live in a cage masquerading as haven for the magically talented.  Mages shouldn’t have ever been so caged! Caged and guarded like animals – it is despicable.” His hands are white they grip his mug so tightly. 

 

The thought of her in a cage kills him a bit. A mage with the grace she possessed should be lauded. Her control, the dedication to her faith and studies – she would have been held in high esteem during the golden times of the Elvhen Empire.  She would have been Mythal’s too. She could perhaps have been a priestess, or perhaps someone closer to the spirit-goddess, a handmaiden, or high priestess?

 

As much as he had disliked the pantheon’s antics, and the fact they considered themselves gods at all, they had trained the magically inclined very carefully.  Healers were coveted, dreamers as well. The warriors made into acolytes or slaves… Stationed within all their ‘temples’ across Thedas.

 

Her hand settles on top of one of his, startling the hedge mage from his thoughts. Her smile is soft, a little sad, but ultimately appreciative. “You’re right. We should not be caged, nor torn from our families. But what’s done is done. We cannot change the past. As for our guards, the Templars have a purpose greater than what they’ve been whittled away to. They are there to protect the mages, to let them live their lives free of fear from the outside world, from the fearful. They protect the majority from the few who would willingly treat with demons all for the sake of power.”

 

Solas feels his mouth thinning. He couldn’t understand this aspect of the Herald. She vehemently opposed the Circles as they had stood, but just as fiercely defended the jailors. For that was what Templars were- glorified jailors with special armor and magical ability.

 

No matter what the Chantry spouted, Templars were magical beings as surely as a mage was. Dwarves had no magical talent and lyrium did not give it to them. Not just anyone could be a Templar, Solas was sure of it.  Lyrium made their abilities possible, just as it aided a Mage’s. Templars having some unmanifested ability was the only explanation that made a lick of sense.  And if that were true – Templars were an even more offensive order.

 

“You are right, of course, we must not dwell in the past, but carry forward. As for our views on Templars, well, I do not think we will ever see eye to eye.  I see them only as jailors, while you’ve some affection for them.” His tongue is sharper than he wanted it to be, the moment the words land, he is stiffening in stereo with Giselle, readying himself for a fight. 

 

He is not sure if he’s disappointed or relieved when all Elle does is let out a heavy sigh. Apparently, this is not a battle the Herald is willing to fight at present. He can’t blame her. He’s exhibited distaste for Templars whenever they’re brought up. It only made sense Elle wouldn’t engage him on this.

 

“Aye.  Will you walk with me back up to our respective residences? I do believe I am finally feeling tired.” Her eyes are tired that much is obvious to anyone who had an ounce of sense. He supposes tonight was quite trying for her, relating such intimate details about her life to people who had been strangers barely a month prior.

 

“Of course, my lady.” The relief he feels is as hidden as her anger is, though he fancies that it’s visible- rolling just behind the exhaustion in her eyes. Their walk together is silent, even as he leaves her at her door. Solas has upset the Herald, just as she has upset him.

 

They carefully avoid one another for rest of their allotted time in Haven.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the great feedback!


	4. Finding Blackwall

Two weeks later finds Solas back in the Hinterlands, striking down Avvar and encountering a Dalish mage who’d been up to no good. The woman had thought herself quite clever, suddenly attacking the shade with whom she’d been treating with moments before. Elle keeps eyeing the Dalish as they walk into the ruins, her focus so sure, he is sure that she knows as well.  Even Varric is suspicious and while the man has had quite a few encounters with mages, wouldn’t have seen the event for what it was.  It simply speaks to the Dalish mage’s terrible acting skills and nearly non-existent cunning. *

 

“A globe that measures and strengthens the veil.” Elle is fascinated by the artifact, and he can’t blame her. It was a fairly crude design, younger than many of the other artifacts within the small ruin by at least half an age. Part of him wonders what such a thing is doing this far south; settlements in the colder regions were rare during the height of the Elvhenan.

 

“It is quite the artifact, is it not? I hypothesize we will find many of these artifacts scattered across Thedas.  Likely there will be more at the sites where many battles or an extensive amount of blood has been shed.”  His fingers breach the green light that dances around the globe, a tingle singing up his arm as he does so. The magic is old, from his time, but not truly of that age. The base spell he knows, but those built upon it were hastily thrown together. It spoke of desperation and makes his lips pull into a thin line.

 

“Best not to linger, we’ve much to do in this region yet. Including finding that horse master. Honestly, I’m starting to think we should just import the Marcher work horses.”  The impatience in her voice startles the group. Elle has yet to exhibit anything but calm understanding and acceptance. To hear this is new.

 

“Marcher work horses would be fine for the bulk of the army, but for our group, we need breeds lighter on their feet.” Cassandra’s voice cuts through the stunned silence, and Elle sighs in response, shoulders slumping a touch.

 

“I know. I am simply frustrated. The more we do, the more there is to do. I want to help more, and yet it feels every errand we complete gets us ten more. A month has already been spent helping the refugees in the crossroads and still, people go hungry some nights. The rebellion is to blame, I know, and the cause was just, but at the same time, the suffering it caused when the rogues split off…” A delicate hand rubs over her face.

 

The Seeker simply listens, while Varric looks somewhat regretful, a little angry even. Solas opens his mouth to speak when Elle squares her shoulders and drops her hand. “Come, we’ve no time to idly chatter.  Let’s set the next two camps and get across that damned river to the farm holds. Perhaps that veil tear will be a touch more manageable?”

 

“I very much doubt it. We need another warrior first, before we take that rift, Herald. We should find the Warden that Leliana informed you of.” Cassandra falls in step with Elle as the shortest of the pair starts back toward the ruin entrance. Solas and Varric following after them.

 

“It’s those damned despair demons. They’ve knocked either you or Varric unconscious every time we’ve attempted to deal with it. Perhaps we should send for the Bull and Sera, two more offensive fighters will even out the magical firepower.”

 

“It would take them at least two days of riding to meet us, but it would be good to have the extra hands.”

 

Solas watches the exchange carefully as they head east, back toward the lake camp. He was not keen to recruit more humans to this cause. He hadn’t been terribly keen on having Sera or Bull recruited either, however. Bull was a spy, a very good spy, and it put him on edge. Sera was an enigma and he hated her to the depths of his soul. She was as flighty as Andruil had been.

 

That she couldn’t remember her life, constantly pausing to sort her memories out, made him wary. If she had ever been _just_ a mortal archer, he would be surprised. That she refused to deal with anything too elven both grated at him and amused him to no end. Andruil had gloried in the devotion of the People. She had abused it as well, especially in her later years after slipping into the void too often to stay sane.  Sera reminded him very much of Andruil during that time. The glory in killing those deemed ‘better’ yet detesting seeing the gore of it? That screamed of the huntress.

 

“We cannot afford two days wait. That tear must be dealt with. Let us hope this Grey Warden is as decorated as Leliana said he was.” Giselle sounds weary already, and the day has not yet reached its zenith, the morning chill still clinging to the air that swirled around them. It struck Solas then, that this task that had been set before her – closing the breach, being a leading agent of the Inquisition, the _Herald of Andraste_ was wearing on the young woman.

 

It makes distaste curl in his gut. Humans were quick to tire. Quick in all aspects of their lives, quick to judge, lust, hunger, anger, grieve, live, love, and die.  Their lives flew by in what felt like a blink of time. He remembered when a chapter of one’s life spanned what now was counted as an entire lifetime.

 

It’s disgusting. A mar on her otherwise wonderful being that Solas had a very hard time ignoring. It was nearly impossible to overlook, even with her great magical talent and pleasing personality.

 

“Varric, Solas, come we are heading up to the Lake. Let’s hope that Warden hasn’t already moved on. Maker knows we might need his help if we encounter any darkspawn further into Ferelden.” Her voice has lost that weary quality, and it makes Solas’ ears twitch. No doubt she has hidden her tiredness for the sake of this task, putting on a brave – more leader like face for her compatriot’s benefit.

 

It was curious to the Spirit made flesh why exactly it was the so-called Herald was defacto leader of their little group. Not that it could truly be called little anymore, she was picking up strays and rallying anyone she could to the cause. However, it was not truly her cause. All the Enchanter was to really do was seal the breach.  It should be the Spymaster, Commander, or the Seeker who was leading. Yet, they all seemed content to bicker quietly over strategy at the war table, rarely venturing out of Haven unless _Giselle_ bade them go.

 

The walk south, dodging large bears and not so sneaky assassins takes them well past the midday mark. When they are in friendlier territory the walking pace moves into swifter waters, and the lake is in their sights well before the second bell of the day. Not that there were bells that sounded in the Gods forsaken Hinterlands.

 

“Hey, Sparkler, think we can break for lunch? We’re almost at the lake.  It won’t be more than ten minutes’ trek.” Varric is a sturdy sort, an adventurer by all accounts, at least in the last decade he has been. It’s surprising that it’s _him_ asking for a break, when their Herald is leaning so heavily on her staff.

 

“Of course, a break would be beneficial to all of us. Food as well, the last thing we need is Solas or myself expending too much mana without requisite energy stores.” Her face pulls into a small smile as she speaks, knowing exactly what it was Varric was doing for her. With little fuss, the mage sinks to the ground, eyeing the surrounding area before carefully drawing glyphs as the rest of their band follows suit.

 

“Why are you warding us?” His ears are twitching a bit, curiosity too much for him to really pay attention to what his ears were doing.

 

“I plan on actually enjoying this little break. We might only have field rations, but it’s the first food I’ve had today, and I swear to the Maker if a bandit or rogue Templar, comes after us right now, I would have very little mercy to spare them.”

 

Ah, and there it was, her foolishness put plainly for all to see. Cassandra, true to form, is frowning and making an upset noise, rifling through her pack for her water skin and thrusting it at the Herald. “Drink this, it will take the edge off your hunger so you can eat a proper meal and not plow through like a heathen only to stop half way through unable to eat more.”

 

“The Seeker is right; the water will take the desperation off your hunger and allow you to eat more. You should have made time for morning rations, Herald, it is unwise to expend the energy you do without proper rest and fuel.”

 

“Give her a break, Chuckles, our Herald takes her job seriously. Clearly a little too seriously.”

 

“You misunderstand what I am saying, Serah Tethras. I am _worried_ for her, not lecturing. Mages that regularly cast should not be without plentiful food. Lyrium might boost our mana stores temporarily, but the effects cause a significant crash when all is said and done. Proper nutrition is the only way to circumvent such things, and even then, it is not a sure-fire way to prevent the wear of magic on our systems.  That is why lyrium is such a dangerous and regulated tool. Just as it is addictive to Mages, it is for Templars. More so because we do not _need_ it to unlock our abilities but to _enhance_ and _prolong_ the talent.”

 

Giselle is wide eye but amused that Solas so easily slips into a role of teacher. For a self-taught Hedge-mage, he is remarkably well educated. She would have to ask him who smuggled him books, or what apostates took him under their wing. They should all be lauded for such a thorough education.

 

“He’s right, of course. I should be eating more now that I am casting regularly in battle situations. The stronger the spell, the more mana I need at my disposal, the more energy I expend and the harder I crash later from over extending. I won’t be foolish enough to continue to miss breakfast.”  It’s said not just for Solas, but for Cassandra, who had been watching the slight woman like a hawk, making sure she drank from the skin before even contemplating looking at the rations they had all been lying out.

 

“That why you’re always using your staff like a walking stick?”

 

“Not exactly, but partly. Mostly it’s because mages aren’t encouraged to have stamina beyond simple spell casting and certainly not in the areas of walking or running. When mages run, it makes the Templars suspicious if you haven’t noticed.”

 

Templars, why must she always bring the jailers up?

 

“You talk about them an awful lot for an apostate, Sparkler.”

 

“Half my family are Templars, a fourth are brothers or sisters in the chantry. What else would I talk about?” Her tone is brittle at the edges, her shoulders pulling back and her chin tilting like she’s getting ready for a fight.

 

“So many? I had heard that the Trevelyans were a devout house – but over half in service of some kind is – “

 

“Excessive. Honestly, it is. I am devout in my faith, I pray every day, and I consider every decision against what I have been taught the Maker’s will might be, but even I can see that many members of a house being chantry devoted is odd.” More brittleness edging her tone making Varric’s eyes slide toward Solas, who’s lips tilt down at the corners.

 

“It is a touch excessive, but I have an experience in such matters. Many generations of my family hunted Dragons until they went into hiding.”

 

“Yes, well, the Divine shall never go into hiding, Maker willing, so there shan’t be a slowing of the Trevelyan clan swelling the Chantry’s ranks I’m afraid.”  Finality as a piece of salted venison is ripped from a larger piece and shoved into her mouth almost viciously.

 

Solas recalls that _she_ had been promised to the Chantry. He also knows just how devout Giselle is. She hadn’t been lying when she informed Cassandra of her prayers. Though he did wonder if she truly considered all her decisions against what could be the Maker’s will. If she did, he wondered at her logic, and how she could decide so quickly.  In the past, when an acolyte was charged with making such a decision in line with their patron’s will, they meditated for days, sometimes months on the subject before giving an answer.

 

Damned Shemlen. He is not surprised the Maker turned from them all. 

 

Silence falls over the foursome as they eat, the sun moving slowly overhead. It is just shy of an hour before they’ve eaten their ration for the afternoon, without any more talk of Templars or devotion to the Maker. Things are packed quietly, legs are stretched out, armor strapped back down into its proper positions and wards broken as they before they trek up to the lake.

 

The lake is breath taking, fed from a waterfall at the southern send, and feeding the fall that splashed near the Inquisition’s camp. The surface was deceptively still, and the whole place was ringed with blood lotus, royal elf root and regular elfroot.  Giselle set off with her usual determination, gathering seeds and blossoms, stalks and roots as they made their way toward the cabin.

 

Another hour before they spot a group before them. The words of rally carried toward them on the wind. As they drew nearer it was clear the group was under siege, from bandits by the look of it, and the man rallying the others clearly the Warden. Elle attempted to make contact, only to nearly take an arrow through the eye as the battle started.

 

It was a whirl wind, Cassandra diving into the fray alongside the Warden while Varric, Solas and Elle hung back, pelting their assailants with arrows and spells until everyone fell. It can’t have taken more than half a candle mark, and then a rather burly looking man with a beard that resembled a broom strode toward them.

 

“Who sent you, y’aren’t Wardens. Not got the armor nor the tactics. I’m not takin’ up with the Arl’s meager forces, or the King who sees fit to sit in Denerim while a war is being waged here.”

 

The white-haired woman’s brows shoot toward her hairline, her wrap sitting primly upon her head even after the rigorous spell casting she’d been doing. It looks like Elle is torn between laughter and sincere annoyance.

 

“We are not Wardens, nor are we part of the Arl or King’s army. We’re of the inquisition, and we’ve come to enlist you to our cause if you’ll come. We need the Wardens expertise in dealing with spirits and demons, and on the off-chance darkspawn crop up - it’s better safe than sorry. I’d rather a force half converted to Wardens than taken with the blight sickness.”  Even leaning on her staff, Elle cut an interesting figure.

 

She radiated power in a way that was effortless; Solas often found himself wondering where exactly the young woman had learned to do that. Mages certainly did not deal with politics often, at least not that he had been witness too. Not that he had been witness to many details of Circle life.  It was curious. Noble born but not noble raised and yet she was all grace and all manner of commanding when the need called for it.

 

He hangs back with the surviving conscripts, healing minor cuts and bruising before sending them in the direction of the Crossroads. Most were barely out of their teens, and their arms would be better served cutting down trees than men. There was potential, but it would not see light for many months under careful training. He wonders also at Blackwall’s reasoning for conscripting such meager youths. Surely Grey Wardens would benefit from having more experienced recruits come to them.

 

“Excellent, I would say we’d meet you back at Haven, but it’s best if we have you dive right into the fray. There is a rift that needs closing at the falls near the farm holds, I need an extra body between myself and the demons. Come, we’ll get you kited in proper Inquisition fare and then be off to deal with it.” Giselle’s pronouncement sets Solas’ teeth on edge.

  
“I am properly kitted out, my lady, but I will accompany you all the same. It will be good to dive straight into the thick of it.”  That brute is agreeing with her, his perusal of her not being missed by anyone in the party. It was sickening and just adds to Solas’ darkening mood.

 

She hadn’t properly recovered her energy, even with the hour’s rest, and certainly not after the skirmish for Blackwall. It was a fool’s errand to try and take that rift now. Though by the set of her lips, he can tell this will not be an easily won battle.

 

“Inquisitor – that course of action is unwise. We’ve expended quite a lot of mana today, and you are running low on energy. Perhaps it would be better if we take the day and then tackle the rift?” He keeps his voice as soothing as it is possible, knowing she often took poorly to harsh tones of voice. A reason she and Cassandra or she and Cullen butted heads when they were agreeing on a topic.

 

That pair of large grey colored eyes turn on him, and her mouth tilts at the edges. She clearly does _not_ welcome his advice, but the small woman is also weighing it. That was yet another redeeming quality. Giselle could take advice, even poor advice and weigh it most of the time. There was the odd occasion when she screamed her opinion for the Maker and all to hear, but those times were very few and far between.

 

“As much as I dislike admitting Solas is right in this – I am running low on mana. I haven’t the energy to take another Lyrium potion either without a very hard come down afterward.” Her shoulders heave as she sucks in a breath. “We’ve made a camp at the bottom of the first ledge of the waterfall this lake feeds into. If you’ll hang back with the rest of the arm, Ser, tomorrow we will meet the rift and its demons head on, hopefully with success. It would be good to clear that path and deal with the wolves that have been attacking the farms for good.”   
  
He should be upset that she professes to being upset to having to concede to his rightness, but it doesn’t. He is instead swelling with a warm happy feeling that she’s taken his advice at all.  Stepping to her left, with an easy smile on his lips, small enough not to be noticed by anyone who wasn’t supremely observant, he tries to soften her disappointment in the turn of events.

 

“If your Worship would like – you and I could camp at the foothold this evening, and dream a while, or a slightly safer option would be those ruins by the rebel queen campsite.”

 

Elle’s eyes narrow, she’s never gone into the fade with intent to explore memories or echoes of the past. That Solas was offering, well, it was a touch odd. He rarely offered knowledge, especially after the talk of allying with the Templars had reached him. He’d pulled away considerably when the first whispering that the _mage herald_ wasn’t going to go treat with the Rebellion leader.

 

Her teeth dig into her lip as she considers. Dream magic wasn’t often taught or practiced – the Chantry saw it as too dangerous.  Go too deep into the dream and who knew what would come back – at least per the Chantry. Elle wonders if she even has the talent needed for that sort of thing.

 

“Would that even be wise? Parting from the camp to go dream in a ruin – sounds dangerous.” Blackwall sidles up to them, his bushy beard wiggling in what must amount to a frown. Solas wasn’t sure, but he did know this warrior would be a problem. He’d clearly taken a liking to the Herald – and that would not do.

“There are _wards_ , Ser, that will keep us safe from any that might attempt us harm, and both the Herald and I are quite adept at offensive magic. We will barely be a quarter mile from the camp should she choose the elven ruins, and if she were to choose Calenhad’s foothold, we again will not be over a half mile from the camp. Your worry is not needed in this matter.”

 

“ _Gentlemen_. “Elle’s soft voice cuts through the tension that she could practically see mounting between the two men. It was laughable, really. Blackwall she could see had an interest in her, and while she was flattered, she was also uninterested. There were more important things to deal with now than romance, but Solas. He was acting like an angry cat, and she’s positive it’s because Blackwall called into question his ability to keep her safe.  Which again, was laughable.  Solas was quite the hedge mage, and even if she was completely unused to the rigors of being in battle, she could keep herself safe without anyone poking their nose in to make sure.

 

“Tonight, I think it best we bunk down at the lake camp, and tomorrow we will deal with the rift at the farms and the wolves. Solas, come, I’ve some questions for you that will make the walk down to camp pass quickly.”  Elle cringes a touch at her tone of voice, soft and commanding as she turned away from the pair, but there wasn’t much she could do about it now.

 

“As her worship _commands_.” Ah, yes, she’d offended. Varric is laughing without hiding it as she and Solas start off on the short walk around the lake. The white-haired woman doesn’t speak again until they are well out of the other’s earshot.

 

“I apologise for my tone Solas.” Her pace doesn’t slow, not keen on being overheard by a storyteller who liked to talk a little too much. “I wanted to say – that tomorrow night, after we’ve sent most our now enlarged party back to Haven, would be the best time to go dreaming.  Cassandra will frown, Varric will make suggestive comments but they will ultimately let us have our way if we stick close enough to camp. Having Sera come from the outskirts camp to meet us tonight and go into battle tomorrow – “

 

His scowl lessens just a touch as she speaks, and the Herald lets loose a deep sigh.

 

“It was not my intent to _order_ you follow me. I just – I wanted to get you away from the rest of our party. To say this.”

 

“I understand what your intent was, Giselle. It does not ease the anger that it sparked, however.” Solas is mad at the slight woman to his left, and mad at himself. That he was shot down, that she _refused_ him such a joy as showing her the past. Oh, he understands and is marginally glad for the refusal once she mentions _Sera_ , but it doesn’t really ease the rest of his discontent.

 

“Well, then I suppose you best tell me how to get that scowl off your face. You are my friend, Solas. Not just because you showed me how to close rifts with the anchor, but because you’ve given me advice and truth without me truly asking for it. I do not wish to make you angry and leave you that way.”

 

And here was the sweetness he was rapidly coming to crave and adore from the Lady Trevelyan. She was unlike any human he’d known over his life, as he often mused. It was traits like this that made it easier to ignore her human nature. And moments like those she’d apologized for that made it near impossible to not see her as a breeding member of a singularly disgusting species.

 

“You said you had questions, Lady Trevelyan. Perhaps now would be a good time to ask them, to distract me from my black mood.”

 

The way she lit up makes him smile for a moment, a full-blown smile, the like he hasn’t felt on his face since before the betrayal. It felt foreign on his face, and he almost wills it away if not for the little catch of breath to his left.  Clearly Giselle had some opinion on his smile. He is hesitant to find out just what that opinion is.

 

“You should smile more often, my friend. It suits you.”

 

Solas found his dark mood was lifting faster than it ever had. The compliment was so sincere, not a surprise considering who he was speaking to, but the fact remained, the compliment touched him. In years past his smile had been called wolfish at best and rarely ever had that word been given positive connotations by those who uttered it.

 

“Ask your questions, Giselle. We’re fast approaching camp, and I expect you’ll want me to help you with the evening meal. A task that requires our utmost attention.”

 

“Yes, yes, of course. Now, if we are to dream together, I need to know how one goes about walking the fade when their waking mind should be resting…”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So if you play a Dalish Inquisitor, when you meet the Dalish mage at the ruins where you first encounter the veil artifacts, you have the choice to tell her you can see through her lies. At least as a rogue you can, so I took that from the Dalish Inquisitor's story.


	5. That Damned Falls Rift

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All errors are mine and will eventually get fixed.

“Sera! Kite the second – keep the bloody thing in range!” For a woman who had little battle experience, Giselle was quickly learning how to command the battlefield. She’d set them into units of three to deal with the demons spewing from the rift at the falls, determined to not be defeated yet again. They were all laden with potions, and Giselle especially. The Inferno Mage was determined to see the rift closed at any cost.

 

It would be inspiring if Solas didn’t know _exactly_ how this would end. Oh, they would close the rift, but Elle would be whisked away to Haven to ride out the lyrium detox for days afterward. 

 

“VARRIC!”

 

The blonde dwarf was flying, the damnable fear demon having launched him when it crossed the battle field. Elle was once again found to be throwing away her staff focus and throwing back a lyrium potion, hands frantically drawing the symbols to cushion Varric’s fall and shield herself now that the fear demon had nothing to focus on.

 

Solas can’t do anything about the situation. To draw the demon would be to tip the hand that would reveal his expertise with blade or worse – the extent of his power. Hedge mage that studied the fade was one thing – Hedge mage that fought as a trained warrior might was another thing entirely.

 

“Cassandra!” The Seeker’s name is barked as he flings spell after spell at the slowly weakening despair demon while Blackwall cut down the fear demon that accompanied it. The woman in question barely acknowledges him, but turns her head and shouts, clanging her sword against her shield before using it to slam into the despair demon. It shouldn’t work to gain the other fear demon’s attention, but it does.

 

The situation is saved for a few moments, the dwarf scrambling back into range, the two units working cohesively to slay both fear demons within moments of each other.  But now it is becoming trickier – the despair demons have seen their allies fall and aren’t willing to die without a true fight.

 

Ice follows the weakest targets on the field, and has the mages making serpentine movements in the river, glyphs left half uttered or drawn in the air, frustration coursing through their veins and flowing from their lips instead of spells from their grimoires.  They expended too much mana on shields and not enough on hitting their targets.

 

“Maker’s **blood** , there are two warriors out there. Use your damned swords, taunt them, do something!” Giselle’s voice is raspy almost wrecked from the shouting she’s been doing, defiantly standing while Solas kept moving at one point, raining fire down on the demons for as long as she could before her barrier started to collapse.

 

“We’re doing our best, My lady.”

 

“I’m a fucking _MAGE_ and a frost bitten one at that, PLEASE KILL ONE OF THEM!”

 

Varric even laughs at that, almost missing his shot but rallying with Bianca. Sera finds it quite amusing their prim and proper Herald knows how to swear, and it seemingly kicks the archer into high gear. She disappears and reappears cackling as she fires off arrow after arrow. The seeker and Warden seem offended if anything by the comment, Cassandra’s face becoming dour as she hacks away at the demon, desperately attempting to hit more than rags and ice.

 

The battle rages until the rift is suddenly and abruptly slammed shut. It closes so hard that Solas twitches and squirms, the lack of free-flowing connection making his skin ache as he turns. Giselle is thigh deep in the falls, breathing heavily and covered in ichor from the fade and monsters that had tried to crawl out just as they saw their escape being shut.

 

Another potion is thrown back, the last if he is counting correctly, delicate glass shattering on the ground as she begins to again fling fire at the nearly crippled demons.  His own spells are added a moment after his head clears and finally, _finally_ after weeks of walking around the mountain in the hinterlands, the rift is closed and the most direct route to the farms is safe.

 

The Herald looks knackered, the careful wrap that kept her hair from view in tatters, lengths of pristine white hair fluttering around her face as she collapses to sit in the water – which comes up to her chin. “Bloody finally.”

 

“Who knew her glowiness could swear, eh? It’s bloody fantastic!” The wild archer crows as she picks through the remains of the demons, scowling when she finds gold and cloth. “But forge’ tha’ why in the _void_ do demons have cloth on them? And gold? And a damn potion?”

 

“Just gather it up, Sera – and any bits of them that are mostly intact. We’ll bring it back to Haven and have the researchers consider it.” Her eyes are drooping as her breathing slows from great heaves to something more manageable. “Solas, would you mind finding where I threw my staff?”

 

“Of course, but only if you climb onto the nearest rock to sit first, Giselle. “He’s amused, and just as bone tired as she was, but better adept at hiding it than she was. Also, better adept at dealing with it. He pulls a ration of dried meat from his pack, offering it to her only after she has climbed from the river.

 

It’s hard not to stare at her, to catalogue yet again the curves of her body as her robes cling to her, now soaked through. Blackwall doesn’t even attempt to hide his discomfort, a gruff sort of distressed noise leaving him before he ploughs off through the water always, yanking up spindleweed and elfroot. Cassandra is shaking her head at the younger woman, while Sera whistles her appreciation.

 

“Stop it you letch. Why not sit in the river yourself, wash some of the gore off. You’re all covered from head to toe.” She won’t have a voice by the nightfall, he wonders if she’d sound the same after a night spent continuously fucking under the stars or on the bones of ancestors.

 

Jerking away, he slides his own staff back into its holder – rarely used – and wanders a ways downstream to find the Lady’s staff. The current isn’t much but still the light beech wood based focus has been swept far enough away for it to be mildly vexing. In the end, it is Blackwall who finds the staff.

 

“ ‘ere, see her ladyship gets this back.”

 

Almond eyes narrow, the blue irises flashing dangerously. “do not presume to order me about. I am an agent of the Inquisition – an equal to you.”

 

“I wasn’t. Just don’ think she’d take kindly to a letch like me going over there right now. I heard what she said to Sera. She isn’t open to such admiration it would seem. So, best you take the staff to her. She likes you.”

 

“It is not that she like me, Ser Warden, but she does know me. Our lady Herald is slow to warm to people it seems. She and the Lady de Fer took weeks to get on speaking terms, only to have differences of opinion at every turn. However, I caution you to keep yourself apart from her, if you can only think of her with lust. That woman is our salvation, not a play thing, nor something you may tumble into the hay for a notch on your belt.”  He barely looks at Blackwall to see his reaction as he takes the staff from the other man’s grip, turning on his heel and sloshing back to where the women were resting.  Neither saw the rogue watching them with laughter in his eyes.

 

“So, Chuckles is protective, huh? This should be fun.”

 

“Ah, thank you Solas. I am far too carless with it. My tutors in the Circle often said the same, and I cannot shake the habit of casting it aside when my spells need a firmer guiding hand.” He tired thanks makes the whip thin man chuckle, handing over the article to its owner before he finds a spot on the nearby grass to sit.

 

“It is interesting you so often cast aside your foci, Giselle. Most mages need them to keep their magic from going awry.  You seem to have things well in hand. How did you come by that skill?”

 

There is a stiffness in her suddenly, her tiredness becoming soul deep and visible in her eyes. She chews on her lip, straight white teeth digging at a pale lip until it is bright red. “It was – an intervention of sorts, by my First. There was … an incident, that threatened my very life, and he sought a way to pull me from that precipice. He helped me find my way from the darkness, a beacon from the Maker himself. I was lucky.”

 

“What happened?” Shockingly it is Cassandra leaning forward, eyes keen to know more about this ‘incident’.  Sera is blessedly quiet, even chewing with more care than normal. She does not look at all interested, even upset by the Herald’s words.

 

“I – It was not an uncommon occurrence within the circle, but one that always caused those who it happens to it great distress. I would rather not talk about it, but suffice to say, it caused be great upset, and I lost myself for a long time.”

 

“Is it something we need to worry about happening again?” Cassandra wasn’t attempting to pry, Solas could see that, but he could also see the way Giselle turned grey and how her eyes shuttered, the sparkling depths dulling.

 

“No, Seeker it won’t be something that happens again. Not if I can at all prevent it.” There was some fear in Giselle’s voice as she spoke, enough that it was noticeable to all who were gathered around her. Sera stands abruptly, dusting herself off and taking inventory of her armor before looking up at the sky.

 

“It’s going to be midday soon, and I’d rather head back to Haven than sit in a dank camp with you lot. We’re all going to smell of bloody river water and that Warden.” She shivers theatrically, causing said Warden to turn red (Solas hadn’t noticed his approach and mentally makes not to watch the man). “He needs new armor, under padding, clothes, the whole bit. Never smelled such sweat in my life. ‘m no priss, see, but that’s just rank.”

 

Elle tries desperately to keep her face straight, it is a glorious and well fought battle, but in the end her hand claps over her mouth as she ducks her head, hair creating a curtain around her.  “Sera, that’s terribly rude.”

 

“It’s the truth innit? Nothin’ rude about the damn truth. He needs a good scrub.”

 

“Sera!”

  
“Herald!”

 

Varric is laughing, Cassandra making her annoyed noises and Solas is desperately trying to keep a straight face. It wasn’t polite to make fun of a man recently in your employ and especially as they did not know him well just yet. It was shameful, really. The god-spirit bites at his lip until it bleeds. The pain of it keeps him sober and he can suck in a breath, choosing his words carefully after a moment or two.

 

“As Sera, has so skillfully welcomed our newest recruit, we should get him back to Haven. You did promise him new kit, Herald, and he must find a place to bunker down within the village. “

 

“Aye, aye. It will do us all good to get some rest. I feel as if I could sleep for a week. I am sorry we can’t spend the night in the ruins – “

 

“There is always our next trip into this rift ridden region, Herald. Fear not, you’ll know the joy of Fade Exploration.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As we get into the Inquistor's backstory more and more, I should note that this Trevelyan is _mine_ that I role play from time to time. So when certain things pop up they are purely headcanon and likely will be glaringly obvious. I hope you're all still enjoying the story in it's newly revised and much expanded state.


	6. The First Fade Walk

The trek back to Haven was a slow one, their steps steady as the horses carried from their provisions. The horses were older Marcher horses, traded for at a ridiculous price per Josephine. It wasn’t that the packs were heavy, but riding hard to make it home before dark was irresponsible; especially with so few horses at their disposal- at the Inquisition’s disposal.

They stop along the road, setting up their camp with care and establishing watch and setting wards. Elle is given the first round of rest, with Varric taking up the first watch.  The Herald barely makes it into her tent before the camp hears her drop to her bedroll with a sigh and then a gentle wheeze leave her. She’d tired herself to the point of exhaustion.

Unfortunately for her, Solas had meant it when he said she’d soon know the joy of exploring the fade. He was set for second watch, and hunkered down on his own pallet moments after Giselle had gone to hers to sleep. It was the work of a minute or two to will himself into sleep, and future work of a quarter mark to find the sweet song of her dream.  For a spell, he simply watched, hiding in the shadows.

It was a pleasant landscape, if a touch simple. The house was made of a soft stone, not at all as ornate as some noble houses he’d seen, witnessed the building of, walked through the memory of its ruin.  This house must be what remained of a once great estate. It was grand, yes, but not as grand as it should be. Especially not for a Bannorn, and not for a Bannorn that was so old. His head tilts in curiosity, the urge to snuffle building. He desperately wanted to know what the scent of the place of her memory.

He buries the urge, and watches as a young woman with raven hair runs through the yard. She’s wearing a lovely dress; her hair is piled on top of her head. It’s strange, the color of the dress on the woman - her hair, it’s wrong. Elle never wore colors so pale as the blue of that dress. And her hair, the spirit decides that he prefers it white.

“Mother, this party is ridiculous. We’re not – “

“Nonsense Giselle, this party is absolutely necessary. You’re going to be a Revered Mother – you’ll have your own chantry. We’re celebrating.”

“You’re machinating. I cannot marry; I am devoted to my calling and this – this politicking is shameful.”

She’s finally stopped in front of a figure two heads taller than her, dressed much more elegantly. Clearly attempting to look as if they were more well off than they were. He couldn’t wrap his mind around this dream. Was Elle wondering what her life would have been like? Or was her soul just restless, too stressed as Herald that she wished to have had been a chantry acolyte?

“We want to see you go farther than your own chantry, dear. While it is a gift that your devotion has made you so comfortable. However, your father and I – “

“Mother, _no._ ” The younger is crossing her arms defensively.  “Father is concentrating on making Jordan the Knight Commander of Ostwick. _You_ want me on the sunburst and that’s utterly impossible.  If the Maker wills it – “

“Giselle, darling, your devotion is sweet, and truly I applaud you. However, the Maker does not choose the next Divine, money, connection, _power_ , those things choose the next Divine. To be Divine is to steer Thedas. Our family is - “

“Absolutely not. I will not _ever_ be Divine under such circumstances. The Divine’s office is meant to guide in the Maker’s light, to _improve_ our world, to safeguard souls. It is not meant for the power hungry and social climbers.”

The taller figure turns, and now Solas is sure this is a wandering mind and not some true desire for this fantasy to be real. Giselle the elder was much too young. She looked to be thirty, face free of lines, skin looking terribly resilient for someone who should be nearing sixty.  Not to mention the décolletage on the dress was quite filled out for a woman that should be much older. No undergarment being worn of this age could produce that effect.

“Do not be ungrateful, child. This family has curried favor for you and your siblings since you were all born. You think you went to the country chantry by chance? Or that your appointment to the position in Orlais was a fluke – the will of our Maker? Darling, it was my politicking, these parties, your personal brand of charm that keeps you rising like a star in the sky. So, you will smile, and – “

“Trevelyan.” He spoke before he wanted to. Before he’d seen all, he had to see, but the urge to keep her asleep rather than waking herself with upset was too great.  The effect was immediate, the dark-haired woman swirls, her ornate light blue turning navy, black hair going white and whiskey eyes grey. A woman he didn’t recognize transformed into the one he did.

“Solas. What are you? What’s going on?” Her eyes slide from where his voice is – too shadowed for her to see him as he wills his shape to solidify into something more recognizably _him_ to take in the estate.

“Why are we in my family’s court yard?”

“Not the ideal location? This place is important to you, is it not?” The figure of her mother had evaporated when his presence overtook the dream.

“Yes, of course, it is my family home. It will always hold a place in my heart.”   
“Would you show it to me, then?”

“How?”

“Bring us to a memory, and we will dream, explore, together, Giselle.”

The woman scowls at him, brows puckering, mouth thinning, those grey eyes turning flinty. “How many times must I ask you, Elle, Solas, or if you dislike diminutives so much – Sophia.”

His head shakes, a slow, wolfish grin curling his lips, making him bear his teeth at her. “Giselle-Sophia, _that_ was the name given to you, and Giselle is the diminutive. You dislike it so much, why is that?”

“I like my name just fine. I don’t wish to be confused with the Mother- “

“Are you not devout, shouldn’t it be an honor?”

“I am a _mage_ first, Solas. And popular interpretation of the chant makes us sinners by virtue of having magic. I may not believe so, but the world does, so I do not wish to mar the mother’s name with _my_ magic.” Her arms are crossed again, putting a barrier between them, her chin tilting up as she peers down her nose at him. It’s amusing that she is attempting to ward him away from her. She couldn’t keep herself safe from him if she tried, _truly_ tried.

“All right, Firestorm, come, let’s go and explore, either your memory or another place.”

Elle shifts uncomfortably, she isn’t sure what it is, but something about Solas seems predatory, or off somehow. Perhaps it is because they are in the fade?  They must be, after all, this was her family’s estate in Ostwick. Nothing could transport them so far in so little time – and the young woman clearly remembers all but passing out a top her bedroll.  Her teeth dig into her lip as she ponders, it was safe enough, she supposed, if she could prove him to be Solas and not something wearing his face. That was only a matter of time, really.

“Not my memory. Take me someplace different, to an echo of where we sleep.”

Ah, she was smart, his mage. She had retained what he told her but a day ago, and only once. Not many had that talent for all that they touted it. Often humans had to study things at length to retain the information they were given. Not his little firestorm.

“All right, come with me then, Giselle-Sophia. “

Her lips twitch into a momentary frown as the scenery around them starts to undulate and seemingly melt away as his hand abruptly closed around her arm. She jerks, eyes narrowed and he laughs, a deep sound, deeper than any chuckle she’s heard from him yet, and then he turns, giving her a little tug.

“Come, let’s see what happened here, if anything was so profound as to leave its mark in the veil and beyond it. “

In truth – Elle is hesitant to do this. She still wasn’t sure that this being was Solas. He looked like Solas, but he was so sure of himself. Not that the Solas of the physical realm wasn’t confident; this was simply a different sort of confidence. He didn’t ask, he told, gave choices but not so many that you truly made a choice. It was either dive into her mind or dive into territory he clearly knew how to navigate while she did not. He was forcing her to either reveal the past or trust him implicitly. Elle wasn’t sure what to make of it.

Lost in her musings she stumbles forward, a soft annoyed noise bursting from her lips. Solas pauses, loosens his grip on her, but doesn’t let her go. His head turns, watching her right herself and then take two strides to come level with him.

“Now are you ready?”

“Aye, lead on, Serah Fade Walker.” Her tone is snippy but not outright hostile, and it makes Solas laugh again, his hand and forward motion propelling her too. The forest looks the same, perhaps greener – everything in the fade looks a little greener to Elle – but ultimately there is not much to differentiate the past from their present. At least not until she makes out the road markers, then the forest – the memory of the forest takes on a different light.

“Those are in Elvhen.”

“Yes, they are. You have a good eye.”

Her eyes roll, annoyance radiating off her at his condescension, but her curiosity is peaked and she just must know what the markers mean. “Are they marking the way to somewhere, or the distance?”

“A little of both, I suppose. I cannot make out all the words inscribed upon them, but they are certainly counting the distance travelled. “It is a white lie in the grand scheme of things, this was once the road to a trading city on the border of the ‘barbarian’ lands.  He almost snorts at the old way of thinking. Those barbarians were the very first quicklings to make it to the shores of Thedas as it was now called. They’d been uninterested in the Elves, seeking lands far beyond the inhabited areas. Even though there were Elvhen cities in Ferelden, they smaller than those spread to the north and west. The winters in this area were far too cold for most to tolerate.

“Will we see any of the old Elves?” Her head is craning this way and that, hoping to catch a glimpse of the long dead People. “I have always wondered at the culture of this time, the armor, the music, the language – yet I have very little available to research from. When I was in the Circle I concentrated on magical research, to further the use of the elemental magics, and rarely delved into our piteously small selection of books on Elven culture and lore.”

“It is doubtful, unless we travel deeper into memory. It is night here just as it is in the present where we sleep. Few of repute or interest travelled when the moon shone high in the sky.” His answer is absent minded, almost careless in its familiarity of the topic. Elle wonders just how long Solas has spent sleeping along a road such as this, trying and failing to catch glimpses of his people at their height. Then again, Solas did not seem overly enthralled with Elvhen culture. At least not the culture as it stood today.

Which was quite the phenomenon. Elves generally fell into three groups – mages torn or cast from family and clan, the city elves who held to a handful of their traditions and the Dalish who hoarded the lore they could recover and dutifully attempted to keep their true culture alive. This man, he didn’t seem to fit anywhere.  Or he hadn’t. Her hand lifts to his, removing it from her shoulder, clasping it in her own. The Inquisition was his place now he had friends, those who listened to him instead of shunning him or attacking him.

 

His place was with her.

 

 

Solas was surprised by Elle’s action; she’d been very quiet since he’d made himself known in her dreamscape. He is more surprised by the affection she shows in the taking of his hand. Few touched _her_ and it was still more rare yet was the occasion of her to touch others, too mindful of the anchor on her hand and her perceived ‘blessed’ nature.

However, beneath that surprise, is pleasure. Even if it was a dream, she was voluntarily touching him. Voluntarily going where she could not find her way.

“I apologize this dream could not show you more, Giselle-Sophia. It seems the road has not seen many memories of note. Perhaps when we return to the Hinterlands.”

“Not all dreams are dreamed for excitement, Solas. It is a pleasure to know that this is possible. That I can walk in the fade as you do.”   
She was so easy to please, his mage. And she was his, there would be no dispute about it, not with the Warden, not with any man that walked beside her and followed her order. His hands itch to snatch her close and make _her_ know that. That she was his, and no one else’s. That the magic in her hand was his marked her as his, that she was the most honored of women because of that.

But she would not understand, if he did so now.  So, he walks on, gauging the time they had spent within the dream. He surmises it can’t have been more than a full mark, and thus not yet time for her to wake. They could travel deeper into the forest perhaps.

“Come, let’s get off the road.”

“Why? Is there something in the forest nearby?”  Elle’s head is tilting, curiosity in her eyes making them light up.

“I do not know.” And for once that was truth, “We should explore, should we not? While there is time yet to linger.”

“Yes, I’d like that.”   
It’s a quiet as they leave the hard-packed road, only the occasional sound of animals moving within the wood. There is no wind here, the memory of the moon has it at half full, the stars only dimly shine. But the scents are present, tinged with that odd tang of fade, but still their own.

Solas breathes deep, knowing instantly what was near. He could smell the mice, the bears and deer that had passed by or were lingering. There had been a goodly crop of elfroot nearby.

“Solas – what of spirits? Do you not tend to see more while in the fade?” Elle had only ever seen demons in the fade. Those that tried to tempt her and left empty handed.

“I do not know where my friends have gone to this night. Perhaps they did not desire my company or were afraid of frightening you – a soul they do not know.”   
“But do you often see them? How do you find them – speak to them, do they approach you?”

The walk through the grass sends sweetness into the air, the soft crunch of it beneath their feet singing through the quiet. The song is only added to by Giselle’s soft questioning.

“I sought them out in a few instances. Most let me approach or approached when they saw I would not attempt to bind them. Spirits are good, kind, generous beings when you do not seek to twist them or come with dark emotion sin your heart.”  
“Do you have a favorite?”  
“Do _you_ have a favorite friend, Giselle-Sophia?”  
“No, I had a best friend once, but no longer, she died in the battle. I favor no one above anyone else anymore.” Her face is not facing him, so he sees only the profile of her, the sharp cheekbones, the tapered jaw of her heart shaped face. But he can _smell_ the lie in her words. She favors someone. He has an inkling – or rather **fancies** – it to be himself, but cannot know for sure.

“So, you see, the question was a touch – “

“Inappropriate, I apologize.” Her cheeks color, the red on her cheeks pretty, though still she does not turn to look at him, her eyes on the forest ahead, always looking for something out of the realm of normal.  

“Forgiven, always I suspect, for your transgressions are minor and meant not in aggression but curiosity. You’ve never spoke unkindly to me or of the elven people. I dare say I count you amongst my friends, Giselle-Sophia.”

Now she turns to face him, stopping, those grey eyes wide. Her lips are parted in surprise and it is the loveliest of pictures. So, lovely, Solas forgets that he should not tip his hand. He had ever been the patient god. Ever worked for _the people_ (the same who now reject and fear him, loathe him with a fervor that few had earned in his lifetime), and now in his old age, he was spurred by impatience. He swoops down on Elle, his thin lips capturing hers gently.

It is sweet for a moment, just a single stolen moment before Elle jerks away, eyes wide and mouth set into a frown before she shimmers out of his sight. The wolf growls angrily, shedding the mortal form Elle knew so well and going to prowl in the one all too natural to him in this place.


	7. Heavy Revelations about the Inquisitor's Past

The rest of the journey to Haven is spent with the Herald being uncommonly cold toward Solas. Perhaps cold was the wrong description, but the Seeker couldn’t put any other name toward it.  Lady Trevelyan would not walk beside him, would not acknowledge him at the morning meal. Instead, she engaged Varric and Sera the entire meal – something that was highly uncommon.

As often as Giselle spoke to both rogues, she rarely did so in Solas’ company. The two mages simply had more to talk about – more in common. Now it was as if Elle was asking every single question she’d had stored in her mind of the two rogues.

“Tell me about Orlais Sera. I haven’t had cause to really pay attention to the country and you chose to live there.”

“Full of ponces with poncier food and even _poncier_ places t’live.” The distaste for the rich and noble was visible on the elven woman’s face. Cassandra found her constant grudge against Nobility and the wealthy to be tiring. There were other ways to change things; violence and ‘tricks’ were not always the answer.

“There have to be _some_ redeeming qualities about the place. You certainly stayed long enough. You moved after the blight at some point, yes? Perhaps we should talk about Ferelden instead.” The Herald is actually _teasing_ the Archer, and that makes brows rise all around. Elle was notoriously careful around Sera, keeping to topics that were safe – those that wouldn’t send the girl into a fit.

Sera, however, seems to revel in the attention and shrugs. “Some, yeah? Mean they got amazing pastries, and the ladies aren’t half bad to look at when they got the masks off. Plenty of little people to help and tricks to play with the friends. Lots of hiding places, too. Ferelden is …different. More about the little people but still got all them arseholes to deal with. Like both places fine, well, Orlais a little better ‘cause of the blight n’all but still.”

“It’s much…browner here than it is in Ostwick. I will say that; the circle tower was in the bay; it was so blue there. Sometimes I almost miss it – but I do quite like the Ferelden style of life in comparison to what we’ve seen of Orlais.  That game they play – it is ludicrous. I wouldn’t play it in finery, naked of my armor if someone paid me to.” For all that Elle keeps her voice light and airy, the seriousness of her statement is hard to miss. Clearly, if they had dealings with Orlais they would have to be very carefully planned.

Sera’s face breaks into a filthy grin, “C’mon glowy, there’s lots of games you can play without your armor on – better ones ‘n that Game of the Ponces. I could show you a few.” She’s leering by the end and Cassandra is groaning, a hand coming up to rub at her brow. Elle was remarkably chaste for a mage, and this likely wouldn’t-

“I bet that I could show you a thing or two, Sera.” Her hand lifts, little flames erupting from her finger tips, “Come here, pass your hand over the flames, I promise you, they won’t burn.”

The elven woman deflates; leer sliding off her face into a look of pure horror. “No, no, magic ain’t for that sort of thing.”

“Why not?” Elle waves her hand this way and that, the flames moving along her skin without singing the cuff of her robes or blistering her skin at all. The look on her face is innocent and suddenly Cassandra isn’t so sure that Elle is the same sort of chaste they’ve all been attributing to her.

“It – It’s _magic_. “

“Your point? It’s benign, won’t hurt, but will feel very, **very** good.” Her smile is slight, eyes dancing but there is a darkness lingering behind it, a pain that Cassandra hasn’t seen before, but is terribly familiar with.

“Aren’t you –“

“No. I am not.” The words are brittle, and there is shifting behind them, the hedge mage looks pained while the Warden looks embarrassed. Sera is both interested and distressed by the notion of magic being used during sex. Varric is simply interested. _This_ is the group of people who were attempting to save the world from a hole in the sky.

Cassandra lets out another disgruntled sound. This would certainly make the trek seem faster than it was. If for no other reason than she sped up her pace to out run the conversation.

“So, you ain’t a chantry chaste virgin?”

“No. I had a lover once. He was… very sweet, and very good with his magic. Which is how I learned this.” Her hand raises, and Sera backs off, angry grumbling about mages and magic ruining sex.

“I don’t want to know what it is you Mages get up to in the tower in the dead of night, but I’m curious, Glow bug. You’ve never mentioned someone you need to get back to before this.”

Elle turns and Solas spots the naked pain on her face when she waits for Varric to draw level for her to answer him. “That would be because I don’t know where he is. I haven’t for years now.”

“What? Why? The Rebellion’s only been going for a year and a bit.”

“He was removed from the Ostwick Circle and moved to a different one.”

“Because?”

“Because – because I was pregnant.”

Silence fills the area; Varric looks like he’s been electrocuted. Sera and the Warden are horrified – for presumably radically different reasons and Cassandra pauses. Elle looks like she’d like to be swallowed by a void rift. They move along like that for a quarter mark before Sera breaks the silence.

“What happened to your baby?”

Elle’s shoulders hunch and she looks frail, face reddening as her pain comes to the surface. It’s clear that she doesn’t want to talk about this, but has resigned herself to the fact she’s opened the door and cannot close it now. She must talk about this – and it’s her own fault. Elle looks to be mentally beating herself silly over such a misstep.

“The standard practice for such…incidents is to allow the pregnancy to come to fruition and then the child is placed within a Chantry Orphanage. The children are often placed in the Chantry when they are old enough or dedicated to the Templars should they show the right qualities. Some – **most** , are mages, and end up in Circles without the last name of either parent to distinguish them. Amell for family less children in Ferelden, Carriden for those of Ostwick, I’ve never heard what happens to the children in Kirkwall that end up mages. Starkhaven used to give its mage born the name Weis before it burnt to the ground.” Her voice is hollow and suddenly, Cassandra feels ashamed.

This was the reality of life in a circle. Mages were so feared that their families were torn apart, outside communication discouraged, romance within punished should the romance result in progeny, and sometimes without the presence of children. The brother order of the Seekers aided in this injustice. The _Chantry_ condoned this treatment; felt it was right and helpful to the mages. Helpful. How could such a thing _help_ the mages? Elves lived better lives within Alienages.

What blinders had they all been wearing?

“I am sorry for your loss, Elle. It is – unthinkable to lose a child, let alone one you love.” Her eyes flicker toward the hedge mage, the first time all day. The group holds its collective breaths.

“It is unthinkable. But then, a great many things are.”

Her eyes slide to Varric, a pleading look in them.  The writer chuckles softly, head ducking before he bumps into her in a friendly manner. “Don’t worry glow bug, some stories aren’t meant to be shared outside of a very select few.  In fact, this is our select few. We won’t be sharing this story, don’t you worry. Not even Bull will hear about it.” His eyes are on Sera now and then sliding to Blackwall.

“No one gets to know this story. It’s something that would injure our Herald’s reputation and the standing of the Inquisition.”

“I ain’t _stupid_. This shite isn’t the stuff you just tell to anyone. It’s private. I know what that means.” Sera is glaring daggers at the dwarven merchant rogue and looks affronted when Elle turns on her.

“He doesn’t think you’ll willfully cause me pain, Sera. But he doesn’t want you to let it slip. This is a -  
“This is a dangerous secret, that the Herald has a child – the thing that destroyed the conclave could mount an attack on Chantry orphanages. It’s a miracle the person or group hasn’t already mounted a war on the Herald’s family.” Cassandra cuts in, the gravity of the situation not escaping her, nor the other older members of the Inquisition. This information didn’t move outside of this group. It was too valuable, too dangerous.

“The only one we must share this with is Sister Leliana. She can find the child, she will keep them hidden and safe.” Elle flinches at the notion of yet another soul knowing her deepest secret. But – this could work out in her favor. Her child would be found, would be kept safe, away from the madness of this quest. In return, she would be granted peace of mind.

“Herald, Lady Trevelyan, I know it pains you, but, I must ask how old the child is or will be.”  
Elle swallows hard and counts the years. “I was just sixteen, he will be nine the month following my naming day. I … do not know what he will look like, only that it was a male child I bore. I know not what he would look like, if he was saddled with grey eyes or the Trevelyan brown or even if they were blue. Nor do I know what his hair color will be.”

“We’ll find all of them, then. And hope that the child hasn’t shown magic yet or you will need to treat with the Mages.”

Elle’s lips thin, she wasn’t willing to let either group be left in the wind, but they were making her choose. A hand rubs over her face and she swings herself onto her mount.

“We will do what we must to see the secret safe. The folly of my youth.” Her heels dig into her mare’s side, spurring her on. It was but another two hours to Haven, and she suddenly did not wish to walk it with her party. They understood, but they were not her people either. She had no people. She didn’t even have her son.

 

Solas watched as Giselle took off, her words sending shards of ice into the hearts of her party. She was hurting. Hurting from the dream, from the revelation of her darkest pain. He wanted to run after her, but did not, instead hung back with the writer and seeker, while Sera and the Warden spoke quietly amongst themselves. Why they needed to talk, he did not understand.

It was interesting, that the Warden and the Archer had such similar interests. Solas could hear them talking quietly, laughing tensely, attempting to act as if they had not just borne witness to the Herald’s vulnerability.

“Chuckles.”

“Serah Tethras?”

“Glow bug hasn’t spoken to you all day. Except for that one sentence. Did something happen?”

“No, nothing happened.” It’s an easy lie, and that bothers Solas just a touch. He had come back to this life wanting to be different. He had wished to be _better_ than he had been in his youth. But, faced with the world as it was, and his goals as they were…

Small lies were not wrong. They were necessary. He could not be cast into suspicion for sharing dreams with Trevelyan, nor could he reveal his status as a dreamer without derision. Only the cursed Tevinter Imperium lauded dreamers now. Saw they were not menaces as the Chantry painted them.

“You’re quieter than normal.”

“I am always quiet, today is no different. Presently I am thinking on the Lady Trevelyan’s past. It pains her, and we must find a way to heal this hurt of hers. Lest it break her will.”

“You want to find her kid.”  
“Yes, and keep him close, keep him safe.”

The wolf wasn’t pleased to know the woman that was his had already been whelped. It offended the bestial side of his being. The elven man in him didn’t care. The god in him did not care. A child of Elle’s would not impede his plan. Not truly.

“I hope you have some plan, because there must be hundreds of children in the Chantry’s orphanages. Glow bug said she had no idea what he looked like. What if the kid is a mage, what if he got shipped off to the Templars as a page?”

“Sister Leliana is our spymaster for a reason, Varric. She will find the child. Just hope that this does not force the Herald to treat with the mages and forsake her chantry siblings.” Cassandra’s voice cuts in, steely as always.

“The Templars, the Chantry, our Herald is pulled too many ways. Her mind is greatly burdened.” Solas is rankled, and it takes much for him to keep this out of his voice, off his face. He isn’t sure the effort is successful, not until Cassandra’s head bobs sharply in agreement.

“Her mind will always be greatly burdened, Solas. She is the Herald of Andraste, our leader.”


	8. In which there is thinking, planning, and fighting.

Elle rides hard into Haven, stopping briefly at the stables to unburden her mare.  Her steps are heavy in the snow, the crunch of it drawing attention as she passes, almost bent in half with her supplies. Her smiles are small, but present when she is greeted, the action meant to stave off talk of a defeated Herald or whatever tripe the mob as a collective cooked up.

She walks with purpose to her cabin, and carefully unpacks her things. Clothing that would be taken to the river to be washed, armor that needed to be taken to Harritt and repaired. Schematics for new weapons, more herbs than should be strictly legal to take to the Alchemist to play with.

It’s calming; the mindlessness of the task, and that was what she needed for a few moments. She needed to be calm, to numb her mind to the wound she had opened. It was that or go down to the training yard by the lake and set fire to things. She isn’t sure the Commander would take kindly to such a display. Nor would the rest of the town.

Even if she was their Herald, people whispered about her power- if a Mage could be trusted to fix things. Elle can’t blame them for their distrust, but nor can she condone that type of thinking. Mages had too long been evil by virtue of their birth, hidden in towers at the edges of cities or on the ocean’s edge.  Places where they were isolated. Easily corralled and quietly put down when they became too much of a threat.

A hand runs over her face, her reddening cheeks and eyes that swim with tears covered as she takes a heaving breath. Speaking of her child, of the one mistake she’d made that hurt her more than anything else in her life… It brought back the black cloud that had hung over her for almost a year after her pregnancy. Things had been so bad; her First Enchanter had wondered if she would even make it to the harrowing. Her magic had gone awry, becoming violent with minimal effort. She could barely sleep for the terrors that plagued her. The demons who whispered promises of returning her child to her if only she gave herself over to their service.

The Knight Commander had put a watch on her. Things had been bleak indeed by that point. Elle stopped attending mass, stopped going into the chantry all together, convinced the Maker had truly forsaken the world – _mages_ for desecrating his golden city oh so many ages past.

That she had survived to her harrowing, that she had overcome the blackness that plagued her – was a blessing from Andraste herself. The magical tutoring the First Enchanter bestowed upon her. The Sisters who arrived to the circle and coaxed the then seventeen-year-old girl back into the light.

That was the reason for her coverings. Her chastity of self to remind her of her faults and drive her to rise above them. And now the blackness was returning. She could feel it, creeping along the edges of her mind. That terrible depression was looming and it terrified Giselle. With her things half unpacked, she stands, and flees to the chantry.

The Mother would help her. The Chant of Light would help her.  Never would she again fall to the darkness of this pain. She had too much yet to do. She had to right the hole in the sky and find the Divine’s murderer. There was also the matter of the Mages and Templars.  That had to be fixed somehow – and if she was going to fix the sky, fixing that was no less impossible.

Solas arrives at the eighth bell, his expression solemn as he stables his steed and carefully removes the packs from its back. His mind was whirling with information, with plans. Which could be said for all the party members that had come from the hinterlands on this trip. Each was wondering how best to approach the Herald after this.

The small mage was a whirlwind of kindness, of devotion to Maker and friend alike, dedication to the cause. She did welcome pitying looks or comments. That the longest served of the group knew all too well. The smaller woman had calmly but very sternly reminded anyone who apologized to her for her burden, that it was a mark of her ability to right the wrong done to the Divine and all Thedas. That it was no curse, no burden, but simply a task set before her, set before the whole of the Inquisition. A test from their Maker, most certainly.

Solas wasn’t sure if she believed what she had repeated time after time after time in those first few weeks after the calamity of the conclave. However, he knew that she did believe it her responsibility to right what had happened. His hands pet the cooled soft hide of the mount, lips murmuring soothing nonsense and praise to the beast as he thought.

A child. She had borne a babe when she had been one still herself. To have never held him, to not know what he looked like, to have never seen him crawl or hear his first word – the Herald did not even know the child’s name or if he had developed magic. It was a travesty. While the wolf in him doesn’t take kindly to its chosen already having a whelp, it also cannot fathom how she is still living after such a traumatic experience. Her pup had been stolen, and she so chained she could do naught about it. 

He had to put that to rights. With the Spy Mistress’ help, he could. Cassandra had decided it might be best if she did not deliver the news to Leliana, matters of the family hitting too closely with her own past for her to plan this endeavor with a clear head. Varric was seemingly allergic to issues of this caliber, and quietly declared he would only keep his ear to the ground about it, to make sure no rumors were started once the child was found.

The Warden wanted nothing to do with the matter, stating it was none of his business, a fact that greatly pleased Solas. The farther the Warden stayed from Trevelyan the happier he would be.  Sera had said nothing, just pointed out that children were just as vulnerable surrounded by soldiers as they were out in the wind.

Trudging up to the settlement, Solas ponders that. The child was safer where they could protect it, and at the same time much more vulnerable. An attack against Haven would be devastating. Giselle’s words echo back at the God – that her learning focus-less magic had been the result of an incident that cast her into some sort of tailspin.

Losing the child was not an option.

His teeth grind together as he leaves his things in his cabin, feet quiet upon the snow as he takes off for where Sister Leliana routinely was seen speaking with her operatives. He found her there, delegating work, reading missives from ravens and reports that had been written.

“Spy Master.”

“What do you need, Solas? Has something happened? I noticed that Lady Trevelyan came in before the rest of the party.”

“You miss nothing, the sign of a good spy.” His lips tilt at the edges as she chuckles softly.

“Yes. Now, tell me, what is it that has happened.”

“We’ve a situation to resolve for the Herald. It would seem that our dear Lady Trevelyan – “  
“Produced a child.” The woman swathed in chainmail and purple crosses her arms over her chest, hip settling against the table. A look at the operatives has them scattering, looking like scared mice, the lot of them.

“Yes, she said as much. I am somehow unsurprised that you already knew this.”

“I would be a terrible Spy Master if I did not know our figure head’s ever weakness, Solas. I knew of the child and now I take it Cassandra, Varric, Sera and Blackwall also know.”

His head inclines, and his hands clasp behind his back as he steps further into the tented structure. He’d rather not speak at even half volume, all too familiar with the concept of prying ears.

“She would be devastated if the child were killed. Which brings us to an interesting crossroads. We must find the child, be it Templar page, Apprentice mage or simply a chantry orphan. We must find him, and then hide him. There are too many who would use the innocent against her.”

“The rumors alone would sink our efforts, the nobility would see her as tarnished, unmarriageable and her value would go dwindle in their eyes.”

The declaration makes Solas snort, eyes flashing in the rapidly dwindling light. “Surely not, for the girl has already produced a healthy son, and we all know how the nobles value their sons. She’s been god-touched. These are all factors that will keep the Inquisition’s reputation above reproach – Trevelyan as well. The Lady Montilyet can likely fix any rumors before they start or twist them in our favor. But that all comes later, first secure the child, and let him know his mother.”

“That is not wise. To bring him here – this is no place for children.”

“The world is not a place fit for children at this point in time. The rebellion has made this world dangerous – for the right reasons, but dangerous all the same. You cannot guarantee his safety if he is not within your sights. I know the risk – to have him here, if we sustained attack and he was killed – I assume you know what happened when the child was taken from her?” He was fishing for information, trying to gauge the level of Trevelyan’s possible grief.

“If that child dies, our hope of the breach being sealed will die with him.” Leliana makes a frustrated noise, but starts to shuffle papers, whistling sharply while she looks for something. Immediately three of her agents seemingly melt from the outside world into the tent.

Solas detested rogues for this very reason. They’d been far enough away he could not distinguish their scent from the populace that frequented the Chantry, and close enough to hear that relatively soft sound. His skin crawls and he must check himself to make sure he doesn’t snap his teeth or worse at the nearest operative.

“Swallow, you are to travel to Ostwick chantry with two others. Find the orphanage records. Find information on every male child born in the Harvest of 9:32. Prioritize finding the Magelings and Templar pages. Of those children, bring to us all that are of golden complexion with raven hair and whiskey colored eyes. Let no one on to what you three are doing. Answer no one if they question you and should they persist – “

“Yes, Sister Nightingale. If the number is too great?”

“There is no number too great.”

“Leliana – “Solas protests this course of action. Bringing a horde of dark hair and brown-eyed children to Haven was idiocy. Giselle would no more recognize the child than the child would recognize her. “Surely her family knows of this, or the Knight Commander of the Circle. Loath though I am to gather information from a Templar of all people, we have to pinpoint _her_ child.”

The redhead considers this, paces back and forth along the tent before turning to the operatives once more. “Find the chantry records for male children entered into the orphanage at Ostwick for 9:32 Firstfall. One of you will visit the Trevelyan Estate and scour their records for any births in 9:32. Another will track down the First Enchanter and Knight Commander of Ostwick Circle. Send me reports daily and the records themselves when you acquire them. The order stands, tell no one your purpose and silence those who would stay you in your work.”

“How long do we have?”

“A month.  If nothing is found, we will reevaluate, possibly send you to Orlais to access the records of Val Royeaux. Do not terry. Leave tonight. Send your first report when you reach Ostwick.”

“Yes.”

The trio departs in silence and Leliana turns her eyes on Solas once again. “It is far easier to simply bring all the children here. There can be no more than a hundred.”

“And what would you do with those not of Trevelyan blood? The Inquisition is not an orphanage, Sister. You know as well as I do that the Lady would not condone simply throwing them into another, either. It is more time consuming this way, but it will give better fruit.”

“One can only hope so. All I am certain of is this development must be resolved before it can be used against the Inquisition – against the Herald.”

“Then it might be best to entreat your god to aid you in this matter.”  
He leaves Leliana then, as quietly as he came, moving without thinking toward the Tavern. His stomach was rolling, but food was important. He had a feeling that he would need the energy food gifted his body with, especially if he dared to enter Giselle’s dreams again.

The Tavern is found faster than he’d like, not more than a hundred steps from where the Spy Mistress’ tent stands, and is as rowdy as ever. Already the Iron Bull is leading his chargers in merry song, one of the serving girls perched on his lap. Sera is uncharacteristically quiet, perched in a corner, watching everyone with sharp eyes. Varric is nowhere to be seen. Not odd, but certainly not normal for this time of night.

Clearly the news has rattled him, has put Sera into a dark mood. Solas requests food and drink for two, waiting patiently as the bard sings the Empress of Fire for the fifth time and steels himself to face Giselle for the first time since he kissed her the night prior in the Fade.  The walk to their cabins with the food is shorter than he’d like, but for the sake of the food Solas doesn’t dawdle.

He’s rarely so cautious, in his youth women had rarely taken offense to his attentions, and that was really the cause of all this. Solas was too used to women submitting to his desires. That Elle had not, had woken herself before he could say anything, do anything further, it both bothered and intrigued him.

Did she not want him at all? Or was she quietly attempting to be the Herald the world needed her to be? Some image of purity and piety that the name suggested but likely no one truly expected. No one liked a prophet that was better than they were. Those were the prophets who died very gruesome deaths. He’d seen one too many of those deaths to wish it on anyone else within his very long life time.

Her door is closed, windows shuttered, but he can just feel the heat of her hearth and see the glow of it under shutters and the door. The basket is shifted, heat spilling against his leg as he knocks on the Herald’s door. From inside he can hear a sigh, and shuffling. A full minute passes before the door opens and Elle shows her face.

She looks exhausted. There are dark circles forming under her eyes and her mouth is more heavily lined than it had been this morning. Her eyes are red, nose pink.

“You’ve been crying.”

“I wasn’t aware that it was any of your business, Solas.” Her voice is barely a whisper and just as raw as it had been yesterday after she’d calmed from the battle. Solas takes little notice of her harshness, easing his way into the cabin without a proper invitation.

“The why is not my business, Giselle-Sophia. That you are at all is, however, you called us friends just the day before yesterday. I trust that has not changed.”

Her lips thin, tugging into a slight frown, the lines around her mouth thrown into stark relief in the firelight. Elle looks far older in this moment than she should, and that bothers Solas rather deeply.  He goes about unpacking their dinners, waiting for her to speak or move.

“What in the world are you doing?”

“I brought you dinner, and mine as well.”

“What exactly made you think I would welcome your company after the stunt you pulled last night?”

“Because I came to apologize for it.” It was hard to force that lie from between his lips. He didn’t regret his actions. Not truly. Oh, he was upset that the kiss had set his plans back, but he wasn’t mad he’d found out what exactly the Herald tasted like when in the fade. “Things – I have always had an easier time of it in the fade. I am less restrained there than I am in the physical world. It was a mistake, I read the situation poorly, and I do not wish it to damage our relationship.”

Her brows knit together, arms crossing under her breasts as she considers that, flint colored eyes watching him far too closely for his liking. Turning from her after a moment of silence, Solas pulls a bottle of spiced wine from the basket, setting it as close to the flames in her hearth as he dared. It would warm nicely like that, with less chance of boiling over or at all.

“You took advantage of the moment, Solas. You’re… I didn’t think you would even be interested in Human women. You don’t seem the type to be.”

A brow raises, amusement crossing his features as he takes that in. She’d thought he would be unmoved by humans? Well, in truth he was. There was too much about the species that left a nasty taste in his mouth. Half were unwashed heathens, the other half too stuck up their own arses to see anything of value in the world. Elle, however, stood apart. He barely considered her human a good deal of the time. An alarming part of the time.

“I am not interested in human women. You are not wrong about that, Giselle-Sophia. I am however, rather interested in you.”

“We are in the middle of a war, Solas, the world might explode - to borrow Varric’s most charming turn of phrase.”

His head inclines, acknowledging her words and that possibility. It wasn’t actually that large of a possibility. They were well on the way to fixing his grand mistake. The breach could and would be sealed; they simply needed the magical will and power to do so. He was worried more about the Betrayer’s plans – and the location of his foci. It could do far worse things than tear holes in the veil.

“It very well might, and wouldn’t it be a pity for you or I to have been denied a chance at intimacy because we were too busy running for our lives?”

Her expression shutters, eyes becoming guarded. Everything about her goes on the defensive, her chin tilts up, her arms re-cross over her chest, she even takes a step back so her legs – were they visible, would be half crossed as well. Solas was pushing too hard for this, but he cannot and will not restrain himself in this manner. It’s been hard to this point but now he has a kernel of hope to work with. The Herald had said nothing of her desires or inclinations. She had not outright told him to leave her be - nor had she bade him leave her small cabin just yet. There was hope.

“Solas, I am not here for romance. I’m not even here because I truly wish to be. I am here because I _must_ be. It is my job to close the breach as I am the only one who can. I am here to find the people who killed the Divine, who killed so many innocents at that conclave. I am not here to bed anyone, to become anyone’s Lady or to raise mages from obscurity!”

Ah, she was getting off track, becoming flustered, frustrated. He holds up his hands in a placating gesture. “Calm yourself, I know why you are here, Giselle. I am here for many of the same reasons.”

“Oh, are you suddenly able to seal the breach as well, Solas? Why ever didn’t you let me in on that little tidbit?” That soft raspy whisper is filled with sarcasm as she settles against the footboard of her bed. She’s still warily watching him, not trusting, not sure he won’t swoop in again and claim her mouth for his own. Truth be told, Giselle was intimidated by Solas now. He was – that dream they’d shared. He was too different to the man she spell cast beside. He was too much a man, and to little the mage.  Too predatory, too everything. Elle is worried that this version of him is the real one, and the one presented to her on a daily basis is something entirely different.

And how close to the truth she is – she’ll likely never know. As she watches him make himself useful around her little hovel, she finds herself unable to really trust him. He was too at ease in places that were not his. Yet, at the same time, the snow haired woman knows his place is here with her.

It was a dissonance Elle was struggling with. There was a feeling of gratitude that he’d thought to bring her food, that he remembered she preferred wine to ale. Part of her is also resentful of his actions. These were things servants, family, or lovers did. He was not her servant, not a member of her family, and certainly _not_ her lover.

No matter how it had thrilled her to have his mouth on hers.

She had taken a vow – she would not stray from this path. The Maker had put her here to right wrongs that she’d been a part of, however unwillingly. The Divine needed justice, the world needed security and these things had been tasked to her. Elle wasn’t stupid, she saw how the advisors did not take over leadership, they never even hinted at it. Oh, she and Cullen could fight bitterly over whom to ally with, but in the end, he would never buck against her decision. And it was her decision.

“After my son was taken, I swore I would never again be so weak.”

“Bearing children is not a weakness.”

“It is if you cannot complete your duties.”

“I do not wish you to bear me a child, Giselle, you’re getting quite far ahead of yourself with this conversation.” He’s amused, _amused_ by her! Rage simmers under her skin.

“I do not wish to bed you. I do not wish to be your bedmate. I do not wish you to kiss me ever again, in a dream or in reality.”

“Then, I shall not. Not until you ask it of me.” The man answers her so easily and it is infuriating. He is too easy going about this, too ready to admit defeat. Why was it bothering her so much?  
“We should eat, Giselle-Sophia, before the food turns cold and the wine overheats.” He’s pulling the extra blanket from her shelf, and Elle bristles further. It wasn’t his place to do these things. He shouldn’t invade her space and touch her things as if he belonged. He should not be spreading her bed linens onto the floor (the very _clean_ floor) and sitting their food down on it as if they were on a picnic. Her teeth grind together as she sits, back ramrod straight, legs curled under her with her back to the wall.

If the elf notices this agitation and her attempt to keep him well within her sights, he makes no comment about it. Indeed, he doesn’t look to have noticed her actions at all. Solas simply folds himself to sit on the ground gracefully, plucking the wine bottle from the hearth and pouring them both a generous measure before nodding pointedly at Giselle’s plate.

Part of her, a part that she thought died when she’d started her ill-fated romance, wants to not eat just to spite the elder man. Though, she isn’t even sure he’d make a comment about it at this point. He’d likely just laugh at her idiocy before quietly scolding her for putting herself at risk.

The goose does smell very good. It reminds her of the fare they’d concocted on the roads between here and the Hinterlands. Varric was a little hoarder, they’d found, hiding spice packets within his supplies and a few extra around the outskirts camp. It had come in handy. Ram meat was terribly bland, even after smoking and being accompanied with sweet coarse bread. The spices had been a welcome addition.

A trick the rogue had apparently picked up after one too many awful meals with the Champion. The memory makes Elle’s shoulders loosen, the tension in them abating as she softly laughs trying to picture Varric politely tell _the_ Champion of Kirkwall her cooking was atrocious.

Solas watches her with interest. The Herald is terribly upset with him, enough he might just keep his distance for the next few days to ensure she will still take him back to the Hinterlands with her.  That anger, however, that simmers just below her skin and flashes in her eyes, is terribly enticing. He’d like nothing more than to drag her into his lap and let her fight against him as he attempted to steal a kiss for ten.

Then she laughs, that sweet little laugh of hers, and the anger dies a touch. It leaves her more and more as she picks at her food, sips at her wine. Elle doesn’t engage him in conversation at all during this – but she isn’t unaware of him either. It would be quite the feat if she could be, to tell the truth. He was staring at her harder than he had looked at anything since waking up.

Her food is almost gone before she decides to speak to him again. And then it’s only after they are two glasses into the wine. “Solas,”  
“yes?”

“Were you ever taken to the circle? I know that you’ve lived free for a great deal of your life. It’s just odd to me that your magic is so well developed when you had no one to teach you.”   
His lips purse, a frown pulling at them because of her line of questioning. This was the sort of notice that he’d wanted to avoid. No one else questioned his knowledge of magic, or the story of his apparent raising. Yet Elle was all too keen on knowing him – even for all his mistakes with her.

“I was not. I was lucky to have avoided Templar interest for most of my youth. It helps I traveled east to Rivain, where the Chantry does not hold so tightly to the minds of the populace. The hedge witches there are renowned for their magical knowledge, and I was privileged enough to have been taught by several over the course of my teen years. “

“But – your magic, it it’s so controlled.”

“And you’re of the impression I could only have learned such control surrounded by other mages and Templars?” His tone is brittle and Elle’s eyes flash. This argument was a long time coming, especially with as close to one another as they were.

“Yes, and no. I’ve never met an apostate with that level of personal control. I know there are those who have the control, but they are few and far between. Most apostates have either been to the circle or have been taught by someone who was previously of the circle. Like the Champion of Kirkwall. Her father was an apostate, yes, but a circle taught apostate.”

“The Circles do more harm to us than good – I am glad to never have to worry about being dragged off in chains and ‘harrowed’.”

She sighs, a long-tired sound and sets her glass to the side. “I don’t agree with the Circle methods. I never have. Magic is made to serve man, not control him – and before you start screeching, I do not believe that mages are meant to serve as slaves or worse. I think it is meant to caution us, that Andraste meant to caution the mages. Too much power leads to corruption. That has been true for as long as there has been power.”

“And you would use the Templars to safe guard everyone from such corruption? You would have to completely rebuild the order from its foundations and ban every precious member from returning to it.”

“Why must you think so poorly of people meant to protect us?!”  
“Why do you so blindly trust them? They kill our kind, without remorse, and often with relish. Even the Commander has had his time of slaughter, and you seem content to have him at your back.”

“The Commander is a haunted man, Solas, never – _never_ speak ill of Cullen and his trials. He is serving his penance for the wrongs his caused. As for the _rest_ of the Templars, I cannot speak for all, but I know some are good. When Ostwick fell, it was not just Mage against Templar. Templars fought to save the apprentices, children who could barely make mage lights from their fellows. As many of them fell to the sword of mercy as Mages did.  I have seen with my own two eyes Templars warn mages when the others were coming for them. There are good Templars, and to condemn them is to be no better than those who condemn all mages as maleficar the moment they step outside a Circle.”

Her vehement defense of the Commander was unexpected. Solas had seen them argue, heard it during war councils when the Inner Circle stood outside waiting for assignment. The soft and angry tone used to convey bits and pieces of her life is enough to make him swallow down unkind comments. Five Templars dead did not bother him. One hundred did not bother him. Solas would see the whole order razed if he could. But that day would likely never come with the Herald’s seal of protection hovering over the blighted bastards.

“We will likely never see eye to eye on this matter. It would likely – “

“Be best that we agree to disagree. Respect my views Solas. I respect yours. Never have I put someone in your past or present _down_ because of his or her dislike of Templars. I would never question you if you had to kill someone who was going to kill you either. You certainly didn’t see my spells hesitate when the deserters attacked us, and you never will. For all that I love Templars – the men and women who wear the armor and do their duty, I know the Order is flawed. I am all too aware that most would see me dead for heresy rather than follow me. Even my cousins – I know they must be among that number.”

He grunts unhappily, shifting his position on the blanket, draining the rest of his wine. “I often forget you are tied to the Templars as surely as you are tied to the Chantry. It puts you in an interesting position. What loyalty do you put first, that of the magically inclined, or family?”

Elle looks like she’s been slapped, and Solas feels like a fool. For all that he was centuries older, he was still too quick to cut the people he wanted most. Be it with word or deed. Giselle was apparently no exception.

“Solas, I think it would be best if you retire for the night. This conversation will not be had again.”

“As her worship declares.”

Standing, he executes a haphazard bow, hastily throwing the basket back together before taking his leave of her. He was angry. Angry that she was so tied to the Maker, angry that she defended Templars at every turn without ever flinching. He hated her morals – so closely related to people he had betrayed in the past. Mythal had been so similar. She had never retracted a promise of pardon, never withdrawn her protection or support from someone who had asked it of her unless the situation absolutely called for it. Elle was so similar. She would never allow the Templars to be left to their own devices. He worries that she will leave the mages to their fate, holed up at Redcliff Village, reviled by all.  


	9. Running Only Leads You to Larger Problems

She leaves the very next morning, riding hard for the Hinterlands with Vivienne, Varric, and Cassandra at her side. She doesn’t even have the decency to tell him his services won’t be required this trip. The wolf in him rages, his pack mate, subordinate, was gone without permission. The man rages too, stalking off into the mountains above Haven but well away from the remains of the Andrastian Temple.  He shifts when he feels it is safe, and barrels through the snow in a form that is close to his rightful one but so much smaller. He tears into druffalo, one after another after another, and then he terrorizes the ram population.

Solas stays in the mountains all day, killing and painting the mountains red, howling his rage so that the humans shake with fear. He desperately wants to run through the town and cut down the few Templars who had taken up places within the army. He wants to sink his teeth into metal, flesh and bone to rend it all to tiny bite sized pieces. He would leave the children, but maul any adult that raised a sword to him, sword or bow, staff or torch.

Let her come back to a town devastated, her cause razed to ashes while she ran from what must be decided and must be said.  That foolish girl, that foolish little mage who had too many secrets that could kill her. Kill them all – because her secrets were a direct link to her too soft heart.

A child, a _child_! Her womb is already sullied, her body already known and that should absolutely kill his affection for her. Solas had never taken women who had had children into his bed, into his life. Mythal was the only exception and that had not been a romantic tie between them.

A tree is scored, protective bark ripped away in his anger. What a stupid, **stupid** little girl. He told her the truth, cutting though it may have been. Her loyalties were too frayed. She had to make choices. Family or Cause, the good of the few or the good of the many that was the choice posed to her. It was so simple, so terribly simple to see the right course of action.

He wants to find and murder every Trevelyan just so she has no choice any longer. So, there are no ties that might take her from him.  He wants to tear each of the Inquisition apart that has come to be close to her. To sink his teeth into Varric and know how dwarves scream and beg in pain, to rip the Seeker’s throat out and leave her drowning in her own blood.

Sera – sera would be done with care, for she was one of the People even if she was so far removed she might as well be human. The Archer that reminded him of the Huntress whom he had despised and if he were honest – still did. He would take very _great_ care of that one. Slice her to bits and make her watch; make her retch as she watched herself be turned to gory little pieces. Take the fingers that pulled her bow string, the feet that she ran on whilst covered in potion and high on adrenaline, the lips, the tongue – the eyes for last.

The violence in him doesn’t abate until night falls, and then only then, does the wolf return to his mage-skin and drag some of his kill back to the town. He snaps at the guards there is more if they just follow his tracks, and watch their horror when they wander back as the stars are high.

No one questions how he managed to kill so many, or how his clothes are so clean. They simply thank him with too tight smiles that do not reach their eyes. There will be an abundance of roasted meats and stews well through the winter now.

Killing these people would have been a tremendous waste. Elle would have died if they had and what use was she then? How would he woo her when her heart had withered?

 

Giselle rarely ever rode their mounts as hard as she did that day, the old workhorses were too expensive and too precious to abuse, but she wanted Haven far, far behind her for a while. After the conversation with Solas, a conversation in the early hours of the morning with Leliana had broken her will to be there any longer than she had to be.

But after being questioned about her family’s traditional traits. What hair color she had had, eye color, that of her brothers and sisters, that of her _lover_ – Elle had bolted. She’d bolted and barely grabbed supplies enough to keep them out in the field for more than a few days. However, a few days would be all she needed if she worked things out the right way. Enough time to deal with the farmland tasks to get Dennett to come work for the Inquisition, it was more than enough time to go to Redcliff as well.

She would treat with the mages, but nothing more, not until she’d also treated with the Templars hiding in Therinfal redoubt. If she could have both, she would take them greedily, and bind them tightly to the Inquisition. She could do that – she was Herald of Andraste – the title carried weight with both factions but little within her own heart.

If only she could have solved this issue earlier. IF only she could have found some way to find and hide the child before this all happened. It should have been a task seen to the moment Ostwick fell. The young woman doesn’t’ even know if the father is still alive. He could be dead. Was probably dead.

Her heart aches. Her headaches, and her muscles are clenched ready to fling spells and cause havoc. He had done this to her. With callous words and entitled behavior. He could not simply let well enough alone. He could not leave _her_ alone.

Takes her into the fade, shows her a stretch of road that is uninhabited and as boring as the world they live in and _steals_ a kiss for himself. As if it was his right. As if he had right to her affection and her desire! It was appalling and so very human that Elle doesn’t know how to articulate her anger.

Elves lived with rape and degradation as surely as Mages did. Yet here was Solas, proud and knowledgeable Solas, dancing a line that should never be danced. Elle was not here for his entertainment. She was here to do a job. His taking a kiss, even something so simple as that, told her he was willing to **take** _more_ from her. That he would take at all if the ground was afforded to him for even a moment.

She loved her people, the mages, the Templars – for surely, they must be part of her people, and knew there were bad apples amongst them. There had been attempts in her youth, when womanhood flowered, and the good had banded together to keep others safe. Her lover had done that for her. Had acted as bodyguard when someone took too much interest in her. He had staved off attack.

Though what had happened between them, well, it was no way to repay his kindness, his friendship and love. Her heels dig harder into the mare’s side, and the horse darts forward again. Cassandra and Varric spur their own horses to keep up with her, Vivienne does not, and Elle can only barely hear the snide remark about childish antics on the wind.

How did she out run these things haunting her? How could she ever meet the child that she’d birthed and never seen? Would it –he resent her? Would he _hate_ her? She prayed with every ounce of devotion in her heart he had not become a mage. That he was not kept hidden behind the walls of Redcliff Village.

As often as she stated that abominations did not happen by accident, Elle knew it to be a pretty lie. Children who were scared grasped at power that they were not ready for. Hey begged for it, only wishing for the pain or terror to end.

If such a fate had befallen her son-!

Maker forgive her, but she would not be able to go on with the quest. Not until – not until the abomination in him was put to rest.  Are these the things that she must decide?

Must she be judge and jury to men and women who were her equal? Must she be thrust above them, claiming knowledge she did not have? Was it her lot to be something more than just a woman?

Her mind spins with information, laments and anger. It’s hard to keep it all straight and tidy – so she does not. Elle just rides hard until the crossroads come into sight. There the horse is left behind, her packs thrown to the ground and taken to camp before they are off again on foot. Her pace is grueling and more than once a complain rises into the winds.

“Glow bug – what the hell is going on? Why are you running from this place to that place like the dread wolf is on your tail?” Varric is having the hardest time of it, at least visibly; his face is red, though he does not take the great heaving breaths Vivienne has had to from time to time. Cassandra hardly looks fussed; in fact, she looks rather pleased to be accomplishing so much.

“There is nothing going on, Varric. I simply need to secure this region, to secure the horses Dennett promised to us and then move on to Redcliff. We must treat with Fiona and then with the Seeker Lucius.  I will have them both before the week is out or I will die trying.”

“Glow – listen, Elle, this won’t end well. They were at _war_. They won’t just agree to work together.”

“Then we’ll lie, won’t we? We’ll weave a pretty song and get them to Haven and make sure they are tied to the cause before they can run away. This war must end, the breach _must be_ sealed, the Divine will have justice and that apparently, rests on me. So, _we_ will make these things happen. Today the horses, tomorrow Redcliff.”

“My dear – “

“No Vivienne, this will be done. If you’ve a problem, send for Bull or Sera and stay in camp until they arrive and then send them on to meet us. I have no time for anything but agreement today.”

Shocked silence is her answer, and she stands with trembling shoulders waiting for someone to attempt to usurp the power that had been given to her. Cassandra had not lead this expedition, Leliana had not, Cullen had not – _she_ had. It was her title to bear, her mark to study and use; the Inquisition was hers.

And she didn’t want any of it.

 

 

Redcliff is crawling with mages; from the moment, they encounter that very _very_ strange fade rift, to the moment they reach the town square, there are only mages as far as the eye can see. There had to be at least two thousand souls here in the Village. There were children, teenagers, those of a similar age to Elle, and those far older than her as well.

The tightness around her heart unclenches a little bit as they wander. Already they have heard a tale about the spirit of the lake, and been given the task of finding a red Ram called Ser Woolsey. It is… interesting. Elle speaks to everyone who will speak to her and learns many of these mages want nothing to do with the war any longer. Some speak of a Magister – but that cannot be right. There _cannot_ be a magister here.

Even so, Giselle tells each and every mage that expresses concern; they have a place within the Inquisition if they want it.  Many smile with a relief so profound that it cuts into her heart. What had been happening here? Why was everyone looking as if demons had come to the lot of them in daylight when they were not sleeping?

In the tavern, Giselle learns there _is_ a Tevinter Magister within Ferelden. That Fiona – the Grand Bloody Enchanter had indentured _all_ under her care to the Imperium. It makes the Herald want to vomit. Her stomach roils with unease and when she meets this … Alexius, the feeling does not ease. He is smarmy, too self-assured. The meeting would have been a disaster she’s sure, if the son had not all but collapsed onto her, sliding that note into her palm.

“What is going on here? A Magister? A _Magister_ has the lives of at least two thousand at his disposal.” Vivienne sounds horrified, and Elle cannot help but agree. Fiona didn’t remember meeting them in Val Royeaux. She had signed the lives of her people into slavery. Nothing was right and now – now this note.

“What’d he gives you, Glow bug?”

Mutely the paper unfolds at Varric’s prompting. While Elle was curious, she was also wary. This could be a trap; the whole town could be a trap. She hated to think that, but logically if all these people were indentured. They had to get the apprentices out, and anyone else who wanted to be free of the Tevinter Imperium. Her people would not be slaves!

“It says, it’s not safe here, come to the Chantry.”  Her voice is barely a whisper, and the note goes up in flames the moment she’s done reading it.

“Well, I think our mission here has changed. Varric, find any tranquil you can, tell them there is a place for them to continue their work within the Inquisition if they do not feel safe here.  Vivienne – “

“The apprentices?”

“Yes.”

“Cassandra, you stay with me, we’ve got smugglers to find and a bit of snooping to do. Starting with the rooms upstairs. We meet at the first bell of the afternoon, and see what waits for us in the Chantry.”

They part ways then, and move throughout the town as carefully as they can. Taking those that were indentured was likely to get them quite a bit of trouble, but Giselle didn’t care. These were _her people,_ the family that had guided her since she was but a child. She would not let any of them fall in any way.

Cassandra and the Herald stalk through the town, speaking quietly to anyone who waved them over, stopping at every vendor within the town. The smuggler was found by the chantry, and quickly recruited to the cause, the former Arl’s son was found beside the docks, and Giselle sternly told him to get to Denerim where his Uncle could keep him safe. Five doors needed to be opened by Varric, and when they met at the first bell, the news was graver and better than she had hoped for.

“I can’t find but six or seven tranquil. From Kirkwall alone there should be a t least a hundred or more. Quite a few ran here when the fighting broke out. But none of the ones I talked to had a marcher accent. They’re all making their way to the outskirts of town, by the way, I sent an urchin out with a message for the Inquisition guards at the crossroads to meet them. Seven saved, but where the hell are the rest?”

“I don’t know, Varric, but we’ll find them. Vivienne?”

“Three hundred children are in Denerim, placed in boarding houses and taverns some are even in Arl Teagan’s care, they only kept the apprentices nearing their majority here, and that was perhaps seventy-five. I bade them wait for darkness and then to run to the cross roads.”  
“We’ll need another runner Varric, I won’t leave those kids running when there are still bandits to be dealt with.”

“You got it.  Let’s get this over with and then we can all get the hell out of here. This place isn’t safe. There’s something off about it – and if I can tell.”  
“It could be the abundance of magic users in a single place. We tend to cause disruptions,” Elle quips, pushing the chantry door open carefully before peaking her head inside. It was oddly dark…

“Ah, you’ve arrived.  Be a dear and help me close this thing before more demons fall out of it.” The accent is odd, almost marcher but not quite, and the clothing.

“Where the hell are they all coming from?” Varric is muttering under his breath as they dash inside, and as if it had been waiting for them, the Rift spits out demons. Elle’s hand pulses, making her grit her teeth as her hands rise. She doesn’t bother pulling her staff from its holder across her back, this she’ll do without it.

“Concentrate on the fear demons!”

“You heard the lady!”

The battle is on, sword and shield mixing with the mechanical twang of crossbow fire. Ice and Fire magic shiver over her skin as she pulls at the void, throwing shield after shield around her comrades. The Herald’s focus is on the Rift, pulling at it every moment she isn’t actively casting an offensive spell or throwing a potion to one of her party members.

It’s grueling, the rift is twisting time around it, Elle can feel it as things speed up and slow down seemingly at once. It’s harder to close and the demons that keep spilling out of it are much harder to kill.

Vivienne lets loose a frustrated cry, throwing demons away from her as they come too close and follows with a blast of ice that chills the room beyond a bearable level. The crack of steel and twang of bowstring are amplified and Elle wonders how it is no one has heard this. How none of the guard or other mages have come running in to see what the commotion is.

One mana potion, another, a third and a fourth are downed in quick succession. The rift pulls closed finally and Elle sits on the ground with a loud sigh. She is covered in gore and goo, as are the rest of her party, yet the other mage, the nameless one with a peculiar mustache, is seemingly untouched.

“Well that was bracing.” His smile and joviality are out of place, but Elle is immediately drawn to him. Much like she had been with Varric. The funny ones were the ones worth having at your side, she’d found. Those who were too dour tended to affect the way you worked, not by any fault of their own, but the facts were the facts.

“And you are?” Her voice is raw; she desperately wants some water to wash the metallic taste of lyrium from her mouth. She’s practically vibrating she’s taken so much in so small a time frame.

“Dorian Pavus of house Pavus. Tevinter, obviously but not one of the bad ones.”

“Oh good, he’s not one of the bad ones, Glow bug.”

She chuckles and coughs. “All right, Dorian of house Pavus, what is it you want of us?”

“To help. This place is a trap. Alexius – the magister ruling here, he’s working for someone, some Elder one, and hell bent on getting at you. You are the Herald of Andraste, I presume?”

“Yes, apologies. I am Giselle-Sophia of house Trevelyan.”

“A Marcher by the sound of you. How curious. But, the point remains, this place is a trap laid out just for you.”   
“How thoughtful of him, I should thank him somehow. “Elle’s sarcasm fell flat, but the rejoinder from the Tevene mage makes up for it. Something about fruit baskets, it makes her laugh at least, and then then the Magister’s son appears to confirm everything. Elle rubs at her forehead. This was quite the mess.

“Have you heard anything about the Templars and Seekers? Any rumors of corruption or odd behaviors? I can’t in good conscience stay here and mess with Time magic if something of equal or greater evil is happening there. Templars are uniquely attuned to wiping out mages, the last thing we need is _more_ death.”

“I’ve only been in country for a couple of days, I have no idea what your Templars are up to. You’re the first person I’ve heard make mention of them, got one you fancy then?”  
“What? Of course, not, I have family in the Templar ranks.” Everyone knew that, Elle sees no reason to keep that a secret.

“Give me two days, I’ll either be back or sending word for you to both start secreting mages out from under Fiona and Alexius. I don’t like this. I feel as if I am caught between two rocks.”

“Two days, and then we start secreting mages out of here anyway. He can’t do anything without you here, I think. So, it might be best for you to keep your distances. Though, I’m not honestly sure how he got this magic to work at all, so it might also be best to find a way to stop him – before he stops you.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, Messere. Let’s get out of here, I’ve had far more than my fill of Redcliff.” Elle sounds so tired as Dorian and Felix melt back into the shadows. Not yet six months in and already she feels bone tired.

“We’d best get to camp. Tomorrow we ride to Haven to confer with the War council. Someone remind me to send word to Leliana just before we all bunk down for the night?”

“Sure Elle. Let’s get the hell out of here. I’ve got more things oozing in my packs than I’m comfortable with. This is worse than traipsing after Hawke y’know. She at least carried her own oozing things.” 

“Serah, you sound put out,” the lightness of Elle’s voice was surprising after the revelation sinister things were afoot. Even though it was wrecked – raspy – that her mood has shifted is obvious.  Varric doesn’t even know where to start. Hawke had been similar in her temperament.

“They’re oozing, kid, _oozing_.” All he gets in return is a soft laugh. “Next time I will try to bring a bigger pack. Or two packs perhaps.”

“Yeah, yeah. Let’s get the void out of here so I can get this shit out of my stuff.”

Laughing, the Herald nods, turning to leave the Chantry and Redcliff behind. The sun was still high in the sky. They wouldn’t make it to Haven today, but the next night if they didn’t make too many long stops.


	10. On the Road to Haven ( an Interlude )

Sister Nightingale was not having a good week. First the revelation that the Inquisitor had a child, a nine-year-old child – born just after the blight had been ended. It was hard to comprehend that, that life had gone on in the neighboring regions whilst she and the Warden were fighting to save Ferelden from destruction. 

Now in the dead of night, not one but three Ravens had come for her. The region that had been _stable_ just this morning was now home to a Magister with alleged nefarious intentions.  They were secreting mages out of the town now.

The Inquisitor was playing a dangerous game. Taking indentured mages – it was likely to get the attention of the Imperium. Leliana wasn’t sure. She and the Warden had dealt with Tevinter slavers before, but legitimate indentured service?  This was a different bag of mabari pups. It was… almost a bag of dragon eggs. Though, this entire endeavor – being a sovereign power of sorts, was a bag of dragon eggs. False steps would see the end of them, in the most gruesome of ways.

Which was why she was in such a terrible mood. Secrets were her lifeblood, and now there were rapidly becoming to many secrets for her to juggle. First a nameless, faceless child, now fugitive mages indentured to a Tevinter Magister, what was going to be next? Were the Templars going to be beasts? Was there going to be some other apocalyptic event that they had to deal with?

She wishes the Warden were here. The Warden had always known what to do. Though, their problems had been simple: stop the blight from over running the world, keep the traitor off the throne of Ferelden. The problems along the way had been minor in the grand scheme of things.

This? These problems they were facing day in and day out? She wonders if it wouldn’t be best to still be scouting for the Warden and for Hawke. The combined might of all three women, well that would be very hard to beat, wouldn’t it? A hand runs over her face as she moves to go wake Cullen. He would need to expedite the building of those watch towers, and to send more patrols to the hinterlands for a time.

The mages needed escort and safety. The Inquisition would provide it.

 

Solas prowled the town the entirety of the time the Herald was gone. He was listening, waiting, watching for things. What, he wasn’t sure, anything, everything. The three ravens two days ago, had been a surprise, as had the departure of additional troops to the Hinterlands. Something had gone on. The Herald was either further securing the region or something deadly had struck their forces.

The God had too little information, and it bothered him deeply. This was not how things went for him. He always knew, always had ears to the ground to bring him back information. It was the only way to survive when you were straddling the line of pantheons.

His hands run over his face, up over his hairless head. That had been a choice made the moment he woke. For years and years his hair had been long, proudly kept and carefully cared for. He was known for it, recognized by it more than anything else in this form. Without it, he is undistinguishable to any who did not know him intimately.

Upon waking, he had rid himself of the glorious mane. Too afraid that his fellows had awakened with him, and they would seek retribution for this choice. A cautionary measure that was ultimately for nothing. The old ones were nearly extinct, five of seven killed after having been corrupted beyond saving. Mythal was somewhere, he could feel her, but not pin point her, the only of the Creators still living outside of the dream.

On days like today, where he feels helpless and caged, Solas questions all of it. Was it truly worth having sealed them all. Perhaps he should have simply let them have their war, let them blanket Thedas in destruction until there was nothing left. At least then things could have been rebuilt. The humans would never have conquered in the way they had, their People would not have been pitted brother against brother because of a broken caste system.

“None of this should have happened.” The soft words full of regret slip from his lips as he sits in the snow, high on the mountain watching the breach. It may no longer grow and twist in the sky, attempting to devour all, but it called to him. His magic, it was waiting to be activated or for the door to be closed.   
If only he could reach out and shut it.

 

Elle hadn’t thought about what waited for her at Haven, the conversations, the inevitable disagreements with her advisors. Saving the Mages was important, terribly important – they were her people – yet so were the Templars. It was an impossible choice for her.

There were members of her immediate blood family tied with the order, and her chosen family was mage blooded. The people, who had taught her, embraced her without issue. Loved her, cared for her, ushered her through the darkest days of her life.

The entire trek back to Haven she thinks, thinks about the refugees being hidden in the various camps they had set up in the Hinterlands. Those who ran all the way to the strong hold in the southwest, those mages who had taken up the Inquisitions cause as soon as she had sealed that rift and proven herself to them. Those that kept their ears to the ground for _her_ and spread _her_ call.

Not two days ago, Elle had determined that she would fix it all or die trying. The latter looks more realistic than the former now. If only she knew what was going on with the Templars. If she could get word to them, or meet with the Lord Seeker, this would be so much easier.

But could she meet with him and still address the problem of Alexius? Could she do it all – save them all? For surely the Templars were in need just as surely as the Mages were. They were vulnerable, no longer tied to the Chantry, following the orders of a man who had seemed unhinged when they met briefly in Val Royeaux.

She sighs heavily, looking to the night sky. “Maker, hear my prayer.” The words leave her as easily as any spell ever had. The Maker what always guided her, taken care of her in his own way – as he took care of all his people. She prayed that he would give her guidance.  His word to guide her to a solution – or some sign this path was the correct one. That was what she needed, and craved after a fashion. It was something important to keeping her on even footing with this maelstrom becoming her life.

A lone wolf howls, and her mare dances nervously. Elle soothes her as best she can, slowing the pace so she and her party end up in a bunch. Quietly they speak amongst themselves, making it to another distance marker before deciding it was time to camp.  Elle prayed for guidance that night, sequestered in her tent. She took no supper, fasting to clear her mind and body of anything that might taint her intentions. Her prayers were soft, but lasted well into the night, until the moon was at its zenith, and then she dropped to her bedroll, exhausted, but hopeful.


	11. A Minor Disagreement

“Lady Trevelyan, you cannot be serious. Taking legally indentured mages from Tevinter is to court war.” Josephine’s soft exclamation makes Elle grind her teeth in frustration. The ambassador was right, she was rarely wrong, but that didn’t mean Giselle had to like what she was saying.

“I am aware. However, the Grand Enchanter seemed to believe that it was only those with battle experience or training would be truly indentured. So, we are taking the apprentices that were well on their way to harrowing, and any of the Tranquil that felt … unsafe. The Tevene apparently do not welcome Tranquil with open arms.” It didn’t sit right with her, that information. Tranquil were no longer able to access the fade, nor their emotions or memories, but that did not make them undeserving of being welcomed into a magical society. She pushes away thoughts of the shack that the others had entered and summarily kept her out of. Their faces had been white with horror. She didn’t push to go inside.

“You are essentially stealing, my Lady. There is no way to put this delicately, we are now stealing people.”

“So be it. Make sure there is a doubled guard on the camps, get Leliana’s people to watch the town and look for movement of Tevinter mages looking for missing people. Do whatever it takes until I return from treating with the damned Templars.”

The room falls into an uneasy silence. Metal and leather creak as Cullen shifts his weight, chainmail sings as Leliana moves forward to look over the map and trade routes established between their stronghold and Redcliff.

“If I may, Herald, you are trying to do the impossible. We cannot save the mages from Tevinter if you are off speaking with the Lord Seeker. This invitation from Alexius has an expiration date on it. He expects you within days. It will take the better part of a week to reach Therinfal Redoubt.”

“He is manipulating _time_ , Commander. It must be dealt with. But the Templars – they pose a threat if we take on the mages. They have vowed to see Mages returned to the circle and by taking them into the Inquisition – “

“We give them cause to declare war on us. I know. I would rather the Templars to the Mages, my feelings on that are clear; they are just as capable of closing the breach. However, this information, this is a dire situation. We’ve two invitations, and a clear threat from the Magister. Going is … a tactical misstep, but at the same time, a hostile foreign power on our doorstep cannot be ignored. “

“You aren’t saying anything I do not already know, Commander.” Elle is terse, her patience fraying at both ends rapidly. All anyone was telling her was this was a bad choice. Well they were the choices she made and there was no going back now. A hand runs over her face, tugs at the wrap that hides her hair from view.

“We must find a way to save both sides. “

“You are asking us to find a way for you to be in two places at once, that is impossible. You _must_ choose, Herald.”

Her teeth grit and she starts to pace. Her magic is gathering just under her skin, and she can see everyone in the room is feeling it. It can’t be helped, while she wasn’t likely to unleash an inferno in the room, she was highly agitated and until she could calm herself, this was the result.

“Alexius wishes to see me in two days’ time. The Lord Seeker will likely not greet me happily if we truly go with a gaggle of Orlesian Nobles behind us. That that is the only way to get him to see me does not bode well. Damn it all. We are supposed to be helping not causing bigger rifts. Show favor to one and the other will condemn us. Side with the Mages and any Chantry support we might have been able to curry will be blown on the wind.”

“Herald, please take a few moments to calm yourself.” Cullen looks ready to crawl out of his skin. The grip on his sword pommel makes Elle blanch and steadily move so she is pacing between Cassandra and Leliana.

“No. There is little point. My emotions are tightly tied to this issue; even if I leave the moment we return and begin to attack this problem again the result will be the same. Exercise some restraint, Commander, and I promise you the room will not go up in flame – and with it all hope of closing that hole in the sky.” The chill in her voice makes him flinch. So often they forgot she’d seen battle before she’d reached the conclave, before the breach. It had not been much, but she knew how to survive against a Templar’s attack. 

“What if we take a more…inventive route? What if we start to spread rumors of an illness having besieged me in the Hinterlands, letting it feed up toward Redcliff for the next few days? I can ride for Therinfal and Alexius will believe me incapacitated. Especially if we send a note confirming such.”

Leliana shakes her head. “It is too flimsy a ploy. No doubt Alexius and his entourage know of your plans to treat with Therinfal. You’ve not made it unknown you have an affinity for the Templars, nor is it unknown that you’ve family within the ranks.”

Her growl of upset startles everyone in the room. For such a small, quiet woman, when her ire was stoked clearly it was not her prerogative to keep it hidden and tamped down.

“Then find a way to get more mages out of Redcliff. Send out coded messages, round up all the mages in Haven, and ask for their fraternity’s code. Send out ravens, drop messages with our forces, and find a way to get them to Redcliff and all over the bloody country. I am not going to let my people be used as cannon fodder or become slaves in Tevinter, I won’t see them made Tranquil, nor killed by rogue Templars.

We are going to _chain_ the Templars to us. Maker help us all if this is the wrong decisions. Maker help _you_ all if I find out there was another way to go about this and to have saved more people. I have a terrible feeling in the pit of my gut. This choice, it’s going to get people killed.”

Cassandra clears her throat, eyeing the short silver haired woman thoughtfully before she speaks. “You are not a young girl, Giselle-Sophia. You know you cannot save everyone. There is no shame in siding with the mages. The Maker will not turn from you for – “

The Herald’s fist meets the wall of the temple, a burst of flame singeing the rock, as her eyes turn flinty and cold.

“Do not presume to tell me where shame lies, Seeker. I am choosing between two families, blooded both. The Maker knows the depths of my heart; he knows the choices I must make. He knows that this – this is a choice born of selfish desire to have some sort of stability because I have never trusted myself as I should. That is why we go to the Templars. Because I fear becoming a monster and having no one to check me or put me down should the worst occur.

Every mage knows this fear. We have it beaten into us. A single moment without being watched and our chance of possession increases tenfold. You think any of us desires that? You think we do not all know that you must _invite_ the demon into you? You think we do not know that all we must say is no? Fear does terrible things to a person’s resolve, my dear war council. The tensing of muscles every time a mage becomes upset, the suspicious glances by those who walk past us?

Mages are the lowest of the low, and condemning them to Tevinter – perhaps it is not truly condemnation but _freedom_ that I grant them with this choice. Perhaps I am only caging myself. My gut says we must treat with the Templars, but it is not easy for me to say.

I could be killing my family – the family that raised me, by siding with those that kept us caged. We do not know how Alexius fuels his magic. If it is by blood -” Elle cannot finish the sentence cannot bear to imagine it. No one in the room moves, horror dawning on their faces.

Even Cullen, for all he protested the idea of taking in Mages, is pale, lips bloodless. The fire in Elle dies, actually dies. She is left cold and is already mourning the possible loss of life her decision will cause.

“Send the ravens Leliana. We will hold off leaving for Redoubt as long as we can. Plan to leave in two days’ time. Josephine, get the Nobles ready, we will meet them at the fortress. Cassandra, Cullen, I want patrols in the Hinterlands doubled, I want the way to Redoubt scouted and patrolled. Make sure the whole of our party is ready to leave in two days’ time. I don’t know whom I will be bringing with me. Likely more warriors than usual but have them all be ready in the event I change my mind.”

All Elle wants to do is cry in her cabin. She is heading for the door when Leliana calls out to her. “Herald, I know this should be spoken of in private, but to lift your spirits, we’ve made headway on the problem Solas approached me about.”

The color leaves Giselle’s face. _Solas_ had informed Leliana of her son?  He had broken his word to her, to not speak of it with anyone outside those that had been informed. And now.  Now the Sister was.

“Problem? What problem?” Josephine looks concerned, eyes darting between the pale mage and stoic redhead.

“It is nothing, Josie. A simple matter that is being taken care of as we speak, I simply forgot to inform the Herald.”

Brows are furrowed, that of Cullen and the Ambassador. They were the only ones in the room now who did not know of her greatest secret and sin. Of all people who needed to know it was those in the room. Elle hates that this is has come out, but considering the Mages’ situation in Redcliff…

“She is looking for my son.”

The Commander looks like he’s swallowed a frog, and Josephine sucks in a shocked breath. Already Giselle knows there will be ‘damage control’ to speak of with Josephine and Cullen will likely not speak to her again for some time. He was a strange man, the Commander. Elle could not figure him out for the life of her.

“I was unaware, obviously, that you had romantic ties to anyone. We should reach out – “

“That will be unnecessary. I do not – it has been many years since that entanglement and we were separated when it became obvious I was with child.”  
“But – “

“It is a standard practice, Lady Montilyet.” Surprisingly Cullen looks a bit pained, mouth pulling into a deep frown. “It is well known the Chantry did not con - the Circle did not foster families within its walls.”

“But – the child, surely?” Josephine doesn’t understand. Elle wonders if the other woman has ever been faced with this reality of Circles and the life those within it lead.

“The Chantry placed him within an orphanage. I suppose within Ostwick.” Watery grey eyes slide toward Leliana for confirmation. The redhead isn’t displaying embarrassment for what just occurred, and Elle didn’t expect her to have done so. Leliana did as she felt was right, unless there was a choice being given to the office of Herald.

“Actually, we found him in Orlais. I had people in Denerim – “

Elle waves the hand with the anchor emblazoned on it, waving away the other woman’s explanation for how the information was gathered so quickly. The younger woman didn’t need or want to know just how far the former Left Hand of the Divine could reach.

“Is he safe? Do you have an exact location for him?”

“Yes, he hasn’t shown any particular talent he still resides within the Orphanage. One of our agents is collecting him within the next two days. He’ll be crossing the mountains by week’s end.”

Elle feels the bottom drop out of her stomach. Her little boy – if she could truly call him that, would be here in a week’s time. She doesn’t know what to do with that information. She has no way to process it because her mind has stopped working as she stares in wonder at the Advisors.

Cullen still looks pinched, and Cassandra looks as she always did, serious and focused. Josephine is troubled, but there are spots of happiness shining through.

“We need to have quarters ready for him. He cannot just be integrated into Haven. Security needs to be our top priority with this. One of us should move into the catacombs, there is a very spacious room down there. Very private.”

“Josephine, how do you suppose we will know if we come under attack sleeping in the basement of the chantry? He can very simply bunk with the Commander, Cassandra and I. Unless, Lady Trevelyan, would you like your son to stay with you?”

All attention turns to her and Elle feels the breath leave her lungs. Terror fills her. She couldn’t be a mother too, could she? What if he hated her? What if he didn’t believe she was his mother with her white hair and grey eyes?  And if he asked of his father? Her hands lift and her face is hidden behind them as she sucks in a deep breath, trying to dispel her fears.

“We should have quarters ready for him, in case _he_ does not wish to stay with _me_. I have no way of knowing what they said to him about his parents. He may come here hating me. If that happens, make sure a family within Haven takes him in. I just want him protected.”  That felt like swallowing rocks instead of half whispering words.

The Commander tenses, lips pursed and brows drawing as he watches her. “Lady Trevelyan, you can’t possibly think the Chantry would poison your son against you.”

“I didn’t say that, did I commander? “Now she’s snapping, temper flaring as he pushes at a sore spot. She did actually think the Chantry might turn their children away from mage parents. The Maker’s will and the Chantry’s…. she hated that it did not always seem to be on the same page. Though, she isn’t sure what the Maker thinks of all this. Perhaps this was her punishment for her magical blood, and for taking a man into her bed outside of marriage.

“You implied it, Lady Trevelyan. I thought you were de- “

“ _Do not question my devotion to the maker!_ ” She yells, and the other women in the room still. They watch the altercation without coming between former Templar and Mage.  Elle and Cullen did this. He questioned or voice different opinions, she butted back against him. “I am devout. I pray. I love the Maker and his bride. I do not call myself Herald, Commander, _you_ do. I make no attempt to say I know the Maker’s will, nor that of Andraste. My sins are known to the Maker, my devotion. The Chantry cages mages, it lets us be abused, empowers the abusers. Not all guards are abusers but all abusers or would be abusers were jailers. I respect much about the Order, about the Chantry, but I hold it to higher standards than either organization is currently being held to. The Chantry is not the be all end all of power in Thedas – nor should it be.”

“Very radical, Lady Trevelyan. Some would call it heretical.”  
“Let them, I know my faith, and those that follow the Inquisition are following theirs. Or have you forgotten that we are not Chantry sanctioned? The Chantry _turned_ from us, Commander.”

“That does not mean we must act as the heretics they claim us to be.”

“You named me _HERALD!”_ The title is roared by their small de facto leader, she’d never wanted to be called Herald, never wanted to be labeled heretic. The rage in her makes the room’s temperature flare and Cullen goes for his sword. Her eyes narrow as she draws herself to her full height – diminutive still, but impressive all the same.

“Go ahead Commander, cut down the hysterical mage - the mage without guards to make sure she keeps control. Prove your loyalty to a chantry that would see your order as no more than sanctioned murderers of innocents. That is what Tranquility is, that is what a harrowing failure is – _murder_.”

Not waiting for Cullen to speak, Elle sweeps from the room into the Chantry hall. Those gathered there are doing their best to look as if they hadn’t heard everything, but Elle knows those looks. The furtive glances and hushed whispers. Dissent among the ranks. This would need to be fixed.

But right now –right now Elle didn’t care. Everything was too complicated and happening to quickly for her to keep ahead of it all. Her son, treating with the Templars, attempting to get the Mages out of Redcliff and away from Alexius – there was too much to deal with in a week. Much too much; sighing Giselle lets her feet take her to the Tavern. There she could lose herself in music and the roar of conversation for a while.  It wasn’t much, but it was what she could get, and that was enough for her now.

The fire roars in the hearth of the Tavern, Sera is already singing along with the Bard and the Inquisition’s soldiers are all rosy cheeked. The sun hasn’t yet given way to night time, but she supposes if they are ready for their watch, a little lenience won’t hurt.

“Glowy!”

“Sera,” Elle plops into the chair across from the blonde woman, leaning her head against the back and sighing loudly. The archer raises a brow, leaning forward so her arms rest on the table top.

“Guess the war council didn’t go as well as you hoped?”   
“It went about as well as it could, actually.”  
“That good?”

“That bad.”

“Oh. Need some ale?”

“Maker no! Wine, though, a lot of wine.”

The waiting girl is waved over and flirted with and not one but three bottles of wine show up on the Herald’s table within a handful of moments. There are two tankards and Elle won’t even ask how that happened. She just wants to drink and feel a little warmer than she did when they returned to Haven.

“They found him.”

“That’s good, innit?”

“Yes, but what if he hates me?”  
“Then y’make friends. Show ‘im y’ain’t awful.”  
“I don’t know how to do this.”

“What?”

“Be a mother.”

“Do what you always do, just with a little more care I guess. Don’t remember my mam. Know I must’ve had one, but don’t remember her. My da either.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Turned out all right, didn’t I? Nothin’ to be sorry for. Just – be yourself. And don’t mope. Your no bloody fun when you mope!”

Giselle rolls her eyes, grabbing at a bottle and pulling at the cork with her teeth. There were easier ways of uncorking bottles, but Elle didn’t have a knife on her, and she wasn’t asking Sera to use hers.  She pours a generous measure for herself and sips at it, leaving the opened bottle in front of her, out of Sera’s reach.

“I suppose you’re right. I’ll just do my best – like I do with everything else.”  
“Least ‘e won’t explode if you do something wrong, yeah?”

Elle chokes on her wine, her fist pounding on her chest as she laughs loudly. A real laugh originating deep in her belly and bubbling up her throat to fill the room with sound.  It felt good to do, the laughter made the irritation and doubt ease their hold on her lungs and heart. Sera always made her feel better, yes, the Archer was violent, a bit strange and more than a bit perverted but Elle enjoyed her energy. It was carefree, even in some of the direst of circumstances.

Sera grins lopsidedly, her badly cut hair swishing with the movement. “There, her glowiness is back. No more broodin’, it doesn’t suite you.”

“Thank you, Sera.”

“Yeah, yeah. So, I got this thing I think Cullen and his boys might be good at.”  
“Oh? I think you might want to go to Josephine and have her give him the information.”

Their voices fade in the din of the crowd, happy smiles on both their faces. They barely take any notice of the fact Varric seats himself at their table within an hours’ time, waving back the serving girl, getting them all large bowls of druffalo and ram stew.  The three eat and talk, and drink and talk, eventually Sera ends up singing on a table as Varric and Giselle laugh at her.  It’s a good night, chasing away the pressures of being the Herald of Andraste.


	12. Solas Investigates!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies that these last two updates have been on the shorter side. I'm still getting back into the swing of this, and sinking myself back into the plot. Longer updates will follow, I'm happy to be back at this!

Solas knew the moment Giselle returned to Haven. He could scent her on the wind as she walked through the town. That light scent of elfroot and blossom scented soap she used for her hair under fire. Fire had a distinct smell to him, hard to put into words but utterly recognizable.

It made sense to him that an Inferno mage would smell of fire. It danced under her skin, pumped through her veins. Elle was a wildfire encased in human skin. Beautiful, deadly, entrancing.

Solas prowls the fortifications. He won’t go to her this time. She left him behind, she could come find him. He paces around and around and around. Some of the greener Templars that had abandoned the order are edgy when they see him, but he barely flashes his teeth at them. There is little sport in frightening them today.

All the god wants is to see his Herald. He wants to know what happened while she was away. To check her over and make sure no harm befell her. Once around the outer battlements, he can see to clear to the chantry from up on the scaffolding. She’s not come out of the Chantry yet. The Council is still in full swing.

He waits a half mark before climbing down and pacing the inner battlements. Everyone is whispering about the state of the Hinterlands. Praises for the Herald and how expediently she’d secured the area. Four months and they had horses, Dennett himself was to arrive in two weeks, and with him his finest mounts for the Inquisitions use. She had gone to Redcliff, seen the mages there.

No one knew anything more than that. Surprisingly the members of the party that had gone with Giselle were tight lipped about the goings on within Redcliff. Vivienne was nowhere to be seen. Varric was regaling a group of soldiers about the time he and Hawke had gone Wyvern hunting in the Vimmark Mountains. How they had uncovered a plot to sell Qunari secrets and accidentally killed a Duke. Cassandra is in the council with Giselle, and it is unlikely the Seeker would ever volunteer information without prompting in a secured area. A good habit to keep, but a tremendously annoying one when it was Solas on the receiving end of that particular practice.

He paces, and paces and paces. He grows weary of waiting when the Chantry doors swing open with force that could only mean things had gone poorly within. Surprisingly it is not the Commander or Seeker who are storming out, but Giselle. She looks lost in thought, but also irritated and overwhelmed. There is fire licking at her heels, the air shimmers with the heat wafting off her as she stalks her way through the town to the Tavern. There are looks, whispers.

Solas makes his way to the Chantry. He cannot hold himself back any longer and has a feeling Giselle will not welcome him tonight. He has never seen her so unbound. It was gorgeous and absolutely worrying. She had a tight hold on her magic, on her temper. She fit that noble slogan of her family - Modest in temper, Bold in deed. Yet there she had been. Bold as brass with a temper to match.

“What angered the Herald so?”

His voice fills the hall as he breaches the doors of the Chantry, the rest of the council barely visible in the war room. No one answers him. They look, whisper, wonder. He doesn’t care. This needs to be resolved, whatever it is.  To the void with anyone who wanted to point out that Solas had no power here. He knew he had none, not to anyone present, but he was also confident in just how close to the Herald he truly was. And nothing could compromise her at this stage. Ever if he had his way, but for now, he would settle for getting her the strength to just close the Breach.

Leliana moves toward the door, beckons him inside. The space between the doorway and what had been the Revered Mother’s chamber is eaten in great strides reserved for when he was trekking across Thedas alone.

“Why does the Herald looks as if she might set the night a flame.” The question is bitten out, his face predatory as he looks around the room. It seems that the night was not going to be an easy one. Cullen looks thunderous, Cassandra rankled as well. The Lady Montilyet is sad, but determined and Leliana – well, who could tell with the Spy Master.

“Our Herald and Commander had differing opinions on our plan of action.” Calmly Leliana breeches the topic, and the tension in the room doubles as a gauntleted hand slams against the table.

“She will not see reason! The mages made their bed – “

“And you think it is not a bed our people pushed them to?” Cassandra jumps down Cullen’s throat, not giving him quarter, and Solas is glad of it. Had the boy finished that sentence, he would not have restrained his tongue on the matter.

“The Lady Trevelyan is adamant we save as many mages as we can, and lash the Templars to our side to ensure another war does not break out amongst them.” Josephine’s soft tone breaks the staring contest between Pentaghast and Rutherford. Cullen’s face is lined with distasted and uncertainty while Cassandra looks as dour as ever.

“What business is it of yours, Solas?”

“When the Herald makes the air shimmer from how much heat she is generating, this is my business. Her stability is our only hope of surviving that hole in the veil. If she goes rogue, we all die.” It is an easy lie, mired in truth. If Giselle strayed, the Inquisition would fail. These four would be at each other’s throats every step of the way and nothing would get done. He could see that very clearly.

“You and she are very close,” warily Solas turns toward Leliana and her knowing stare.

“She is dear to me, a friend, and our salvation as many like to say. Of course, I endeavor to be close to her.”

“The Herald has no time for romantic entanglements, Solas.” Cullen, of all the people in the room, sees fit to inform the god of that. He tamps down a growl, his nostrils flaring and a heavy sigh leaving him. Someone – anyone, if there were gods, he need their strength to deal with these children.

“I have no romantic feelings for Giselle. She is my friend. Surely, Commander, you know what a friend is?”

“Not many friends step in.”

“Not many people are friends with the only woman who can save our collective world from demons ripping through a highly-weakened veil thanks to a Breach between realms.” Cullen flinches as Solas snaps at him. A tired hand runs over the Commander’s face and he doesn’t dare look for help from anyone else in the room. He and the Herald had been at odds from the moment he’d found her to be a mage. He was still so unsure of Mages. It would take him years to be over his paranoia and the mistakes he’d made in Kirkwall.

“The only good news to come of the meeting was that Giselle’s son has been found. He should be here within a week.” His voice is heavy and hollow. Another thing to feel badly about. Another mage mistreated by the very people who were supposed to keep them safe and happy.

“Good news indeed. A son should not have been without his mother for so long. Perhaps his presence will give her some comfort.” Solas sighs as he speaks, nodding to each of the councilors in turn.

“Thank you for telling me what occurred. It is not my place, but Giselle-Sophia is dear to us all in different ways. To see her so – rankled – is disturbing. As, no doubt, was her ire. I’ll leave you to your work.”

Solas turns on his heel once the others dismiss him in turn, and heads out into the dusk. It was troubling but equally pleasing to know how deeply Giselle was tied to the magical people of Thedas. He had known in theory, had seen her step up to save mages here and there, bringing them into the fold slowly but surely, but this? This was a grand sort of gesture. She was honestly torn and had been visibly upset about the argument.

There was hope for the ‘Herald of Andraste’ yet. It gladdened the man’s heart to know it. The wolf in him had already been sure of her. Now to just set about regaining their place in her heart.


	13. One Step Forward

Giselle is remarkably adept at avoiding people when she needs to be. Suddenly the armor she dons and the wrap of her hair are of such coloring she blends almost entirely into the environment. Her staff is gone.  Her speech pattern emulates Leliana and Josephine’s and she’s a bit like a ghost. Or would be, Solas knows where she is. He can hear her door creek open for the first bell of morning, can scent her straight to the door of the Chantry.

Two days may have been a blink to him, but with her practically shoving a thorn into his side with her absence; those two days are hellacious. Ravens move in an unkindness in and out the town.

There is a tenseness in the air that cannot be ignored as the Inquisition desperately attempts to save everyone with sleight of hand and well worded, misleading letters. They had no idea if this would work. Security, such as it was, around Haven was as tight as they could make it. Letters monitored, a fact that made Giselle’s skin crawl, peoples where abouts accounted for as often as possible.

The truth of the charade couldn’t come out, not until Elle had at least attempted to leash the Templars. No one agreed with this, not in their heart of hearts. They were at war, a war against whom ever had destroyed the conclave. Saving everyone was an unreasonable goal.

However, Giselle wasn’t to be swayed. Her face had been set with such fierce determination that no one tried. Cullen kept himself occupied training those who could lift swords, forming them into an army that hopefully would not fall apart at the slightest of threats. No one saw the ever-busy Spy Mistress, and equally unavailable was Lady Montilyet.

It seemed that everyone important within the Inquisition had vanished. Giselle was losing hope that her rouse would be believed when a Raven came just before the sixth bell the evening of the second day. She ran with it, hoping for word from Alexius that her absence would be forgiven. Something. Anything.

Leliana was surprised to see the white haired and red cheeked young mage in her door way. Just as surprised as the raven that almost took flight again without giving his missive to his mistress. It takes Leliana several tries to get the note off the bird’s leg, and the work of a moment to see the scroll undone. Giselle doesn’t realize that she is holding her breath until Leliana closes the scroll, those eyes, so piercing, landing on her.

“I am sorry, Inquisitor. He will not reschedule the meeting.”  
Air rushes from the Inquisitor’s lungs not unlike when she is caught blind by an attack. All those mages would be indentured or worse now. She shivers, remembering the lack of Tranquil and then that innocent shack that had been filled with horrors.

“Keep the patrols doubled, the coded notes as well. Do you know how many have made it out of Redcliff?”

“Inquisitor this is not – “  
“There is no good time for this, Leliana. But we now have an obligation, a choice has been made. We cannot let a hostile foreign power stay in Redcliff. We must diminish it by any means necessary. Send word to the Iron Bull, Varric, and Cassandra, tomorrow we ride for Redoubt.”

“And what of Solas?”  
The question makes Giselle’s back go ramrod straight, warm grey eyes turning cold. “What of him?”

“Will he not be part of the party?”

“No, we have one mage, there isn’t any need for another. He, Madam de Fer, Sera, and Blackwall will hold the fort so to speak, here. Get word to the mage Dorian, in Redcliff, I doubt he is safe there now.”

The younger woman, suddenly riddle with weight and aged within moments, turns away from her Spy Mistress. “I want them ready to leave at first light. We do not want to keep the Nobles or the Lord Seeker waiting.”

 

\--

When Giselle bursts from the Chantry into the crisp air of Haven, she takes a deep breath to keep from screaming. Her ploy had failed. The mages were now property of Tevinter. It makes her stomach roll uneasily and her heart seizes with fear.

She had left her family to be scooped up by an opportunistic Magister that would use them for who knew what. Logically, she knows that forbidden magic is not all that fuels the empire, how could it be? Perhaps it really was a land drenched in blood, where the fade was pulled thin and magic practiced as freely as sword play here. She has no idea. All Elle knows, is that she had been wrong to attempt to save the mages and still leash the Templars.

“There is no use for it, the die has been cast,” wearily she rubs at her brow and sucks in a sharp breath when wrapped feet come into her line of vision. Solas. A man she has no time for at present.

“Herald.”  
“Must you invoke a title that has little foundation in reality,” her tone is cutting, tipped with poison, though her head does not move.

Solas, for his part, barely flinches. He has surmised that the news was poor from the way Giselle was acting. She had no walls. There was nothing keeping her emotions from the world’s eye. Things did not go the way she planned.

“I give you your due, nothing more and nothing less.” His voice is even, words oddly light for all that she has been avoiding the man. She expected more anger, or a hint of it at least. “I came to see what troubled you so.”

“Do you make it habit to spy on me, Solas? Have you forgotten we have a very capable Spy Master already? Are you not a _mage_?”

“These things do not preclude one another, Giselle, and I am aware of Leliana and her purpose. You forget yourself in this childlike anger. I am a friend, and you are upset. I consider it my duty to discern why.”

“I release you of such a duty!” She’s lashing out, upset over the loss of Redcliff, over her own idealism. That she’s betrayed her chosen family sits heavy on her shoulders.

“Giselle, stop. Please, do not say things you may come to regret later.” It’s taking everything in Solas to not lash back at the young girl he sees before him. There’s nothing of his Herald in her. Nothing of the strong woman made to give up a child and later fight a war -nothing of the leader in her in this moment.

“Do not tell me what to do Solas!” Her ire is turned full force onto him, those grey eyes blazing.

It makes his heart jump. He doesn’t know what has caused this fire in the woman before him, but it is good to see it. He takes umbrage with her turning that anger on him, when he is doing nothing but attempting to see if she is all right, but that will be addressed. Taking a slow breath, eyes closing and opening once more with the movement of his chest, Solas tamps down his knee jerk reactions. He is not a fledgling; he has more control than the Herald knows.

“I do not presume to do so. Giselle, perhaps we could speak privately. We are drawing a crowd.”

Solas isn’t lying, all Elle must do is let her eyes slide from him and she sees that the Requisitions officer might look occupied but is listening. Several who have baskets, moving through the square are slowing as they near. She sucks in a deep breath and jerks her head into a nod.

Better for there to be less fodder for the gossip mills than more. Solas, well, Solas feels a weight lifting off him. Fighting with Giselle in the middle of town is not on his agenda. Not for a very long time at least. For fighting with her in public is inevitable. He was just putting it off as long as he could for now. Still, he is turning on his heel and heading back to their respective huts. No doubt, Giselle will retire to her own, and attempt to shut him out once more.

Solas heads for his own. Whatever anger she had could be vented within his walls and none would be the wiser of it. Not that Elle would be aware. Not unless she were extraordinarily observant of his home to feel the wards surrounding her or the carvings around windows and doors. It surprises Solas to hear her boots continue to crunch on the snow past her small hovel. Surprises and pleases him in ways he doesn’t much care to look at with Elle behind him still as angry as ever, reminding him more and more of a petulant child.

Humans. They never really matured in his eyes. Even the Elders of the various tribes were prone to fits. Not that the ‘Creators’ had been any better. But, they had all been younger then. Who knows what they might have become if left to roam free. Perhaps they would have all matured. Perhaps they would have destroyed and rampaged as he had feared.

“I am going to Redoubt, and the Mages are lost to us.” Her outburst is dramatic, likely not intended so, but dramatic all the same as soon as his door closes behind her.

“You’ve a number secreted out already, and word spreads as we speak that you take any and all mages into the Inquisition. They have haven here and learn of it – so why do you seem so up in arms over your choice?”

“I wanted to save them! I wanted the Templars leashed so I could watch them, and the Mages free! That was the plan, and I didn’t do enough to make it so. Spread rumors of illness, gathering nobles at Redoubt in hopes I could both meet with Alexius and the Lord Seeker without either being the wiser until it was too late. Idealistic, foolish.”

And there was the heart of it. Giselle had believed herself capable of saving all with loss of few. A common mistake as Solas would know it. There was always death, it was the surest thing in life. But Elle, Giselle had wanted to defy that fact. It makes him admire her, even as he shakes his head, a wry smile pulling at his lips.

“We can never save them all. You have saved many, however, and this is not something you should be casting aside as failure.”

“They will be slaves, Solas. Slaves and there will be news that Ferelden is ripe for attack!”

“Ferelden is not your domain to keep safe, Giselle-Sophia. Tell the King what you’ve learned, and let him deal with this news as he sees fit. Your job is to prevent the sky from rending itself in twain with spirits and demons pouring into the waking world. Your job is to find the Divine’s murderer, and bring them to justice.”

“You cannot ask me to ignore that there is a Magister of Tevinter taking mages of Orlais and Ferelden as his wards, as his _indentured_ wards. We’ve been fighting to avoid cages and cuffs. Fiona all but guaranteed they will never be free of them now!”

The temperature in the small building ratchets up and Solas eyes Trevelyan warily. Her magic was reacting to her heightened emotional state and that did not bode well for the direction this conversation was taking. But, she was speaking to him and that was the more important part of this in his mind.

“Peace, Giselle-Sophia. What more could you have done?”

“I could have simply marched into the Redcliff Keep and demand the mages be turned over for our ‘use’ and simply never given them back to Alexius!” Her shriek makes him wince, delicate ears tilting back and away from her in an attempt to quell the pain of her pitch.

“Peace, Giselle. Peace. You really think the Magister would have just given you ‘his’ mages? You would have been bound by contract, and more than likely magic. We began the process of moving mages out of his power the moment you decided to attempt and secure both factions under your thumb. Not all are lost.”

“Not all – but most.”

“And had you have taken the Mages, all of Thedas would see you as a Mage leading a grand army of mages -.”

“And they would not have been wrong!”

The air shimmers around them and Solas sighs heavily. He moves quickly, darting forward, his hands settling on her waist as he backs her into a wall. The shock of his movements, of the situation, makes Elle’s magic retreat.

“ **Peace** , woman! Before you burn my hovel down around us.” His words are low, rough with irritation that further shocks the human woman. Human. He must remember that. Must remember she is inferior and not let these outbursts annoy him so.

“Let go of me, Solas.” Her face has color to it, more than he can remember seeing in their short acquaintance.

“Not until you listen to me, woman. The Mages, Fiona, she made her choice just as you had to make yours. You were set on going to the Templars, set on neutralizing a threat to your fellows. This has not changed, has it?”

Elle shakes her head jerkily, still attempting to twist out of his hold.

“Then Alexius not falling for whatever rouse you attempted to feed him is a boon. You will have stronger mages, the mages who will run for their freedom, who will risk whatever punishment the Tevene may rain upon them for their flight. The Templars will be neutralized and we will seal the breach. You purpose will be half fulfilled. Do not dwell on small failures. Do not spread us so thin that an attack here would leave us crippled.”

“What do you know of war, what do you know of leading?” Elle doesn’t want to listen to Solas. Doesn’t want him to have been right this whole time. Doesn’t want to believe her attempts were ultimately doomed to failure before they were thought of. Twisting violently, her hands land on his chest, pushing him away as she sneers and snaps at him.

“Templars – blood ties to a family who did not want me after my talent showed. That is why I chose them in the first place. Misguided faith that Templars would continue to be true to their calling, protecting mages from the outside world, to ignorant and too afraid to see that not all of us are evil or doomed to such a fate as possession. How can I know they will? How do I make peace with the knowledge I chose blood siblings over those that were there for me when I needed them? The mages are my people, Solas.”

“And you did not choose them.” He has little pity for her. Has had little pity for her ever since it was clear that she would make _this_ choice. “They will be stronger for it. Now, calm yourself. Calm yourself and think of what the future holds later. For now, I think perhaps a less stressful topic of conversation is in order.”

“Stop telling me what to do, Solas.”

“I don’t think I will, actually. Not after you singed holes in my one good tunic.”

The laugher that leaves him when Giselle’s eyes lock onto the two hand sized holes on the elder man’s chest feels good. Her squeaked apology and the way the tension breaks around them feels better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear I will soon get to the point of this damned prompt. We're inching ever closer!


	14. An Aside - Commander Cullen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry to keep you waiting for more of this work. Inspiration lately has been lacking - and I'll be terribly honest, it's because I've been hugely busy and happier than I have been in years. Writing tends to be my refuge not when I am bored or have 'nothing' to do, but when I am depressed or in a funk, that is when inspiration hits. 
> 
> That said, I've let this poor baby molder for almost a year. I am going to do my best to bring the story back to life.

He heard the whispers about the camp. The Herald and the Commander were at odds with one another. They didn’t like one another. It wasn’t wrong, but not entirely right either.

The Herald, Giselle-Sophia Trevelyan, she was a fine woman. A good mage, he could see that. She was careful in her spellcasting. He admired her vicious hold on her faith, admired her ability to wrest the attention of the world from despair and aim it at hope. They were not far into this campaign, but he had high hopes.

The Herald would guide them through the darkest nights, and illuminate the righteous path. That was what Cassandra had said one day not so long ago. Cullen, he didn’t quite believe as he used to, not with the gnawing pain of withdrawal to make him doubt. But he hoped.

He hopes the woman lives up to the title, he hopes she is not crushed under the weight of what Thedas needs of her. He simply – hopes.

 

 


	15. Redoubt

“Maker, keep safe those who have been left behind. Forgive the decisions made of necessity and haste. Blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter. Blessed are the peacekeepers, champions of the just. Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow, in their blood the Maker’s will is written.”  Her voice shakes, raw in her throat as she and her party stand over the fallen. The battle of Redoubt had been won, at a dear cost.

Recruits far too young and several seasoned officers lost, to say nothing of the men and women already corrupted. The flames of their pyres light the night sky, provided by Giselle in hopes to convey them to the Maker’s side faster. But her hope sticks in her throat. What she had seen within these walls had shaken her.

The nobleman – Abernache - who had walked into the hold with her had just barely survived. The wrongness of the Knights had made her call him to her side. He stands at her side, breaths still shallow, the fear of what he had witnessed still pulling at him with hooked claws. No one would be safe tonight in the fade. Not here.

And it is not just Templars were laid to rest, some of the nobles who had come had perished in the courtyard. Abominations taking their lives like so many children grab at candy.

Her hands lift and rub over her face, the wrongness of the day sticking to her flesh. She can still feel it, the song of the corruption that had rooted itself in the knights here. Her skin crawls and tears prickle at her eyes. So many lost, but far more saved. Was this to be the nature of her life now? So many saved in the Hinterlands, at the crossroads town, but not all. So many mages secreted away, but not all, not enough.

A hand lights on her shoulder, making her look up, acknowledging the wet on her cheeks as Cassandra comes into her view. The elder woman’s face is pulled, stress lining it, grief weighing down her features. “Seeker?”

“Cassandra,” the Seeker’s voice is also rough, and how could it not be? She had screamed and done all in her power to keep the abominations attention on her rather than the Templars, the Nobles, the rest of their party. “I think, after all we have seen, Herald, that my first name is not inappropriate to use.”

A deep breath, and words continue. “We have healed all who can be healed with potions, and the vanguard departed as soon as they were able. We’ve the middle officers and remaining recruits to travel at our back. Now the fallen are laid to rest, we should also rest and leave on the sunrise.”

It was a sound plan, but Elle cannot bear to stay here through the night. The veil is too thin with recent bloodshed. They are too close to the rooms where a plot had been hatched against the Orlesian Empress. She shakes with the memories of the battle and looks around the pyres. Drawn faces, the unmistakable wide eyes full of fear. They could not stay the night in this place.

“It isn’t safe, Cassandra. Not here, not tonight, there will be spirits here, too many to tell friend from foe.” Her words are quiet, a certain kind of defeat heavy in them.  Spirits, demons, all would prowl here tonight. “The trauma is too new, no one’s mind is safe here. We ride and walk until we cannot move an inch farther.”

Cassandra makes a sound of dissent, but she doesn’t object immediately. Grey eyes watch as the severe plains of Cassandra’s face shift and pull as she thinks. It is unclear if minutes or moments pass before the taller woman nods briskly, but relief floods the mage.

“I will gather them then, and have the inquisition forces take as much information with them as they can carry. And the Captain we found – “

“Chain him.” Her tone is cold as ice and she moves out of the Seeker’s hold. “He will be put to trial by the Inquisition. It may be the only measure of justice these men get.”

A nod is her answer, and the Seeker turns away, moving deceptively silent for the armor she wears. Giselle turns back to the pyre, barely flinching when the boy makes his appearance again.

“Not safe here, not safe where Envy lurks. No one can be trusted if we stay the night. Not the Templars, not Seeker, especially not me.”

“Cole,” she is tired, too tired to attempt to explain her thoughts to the spirit boy. He turns to her, hat low over his eyes, head tilted in what would seem to be question. “I understand, this hurt is new. We should leave.”

Elle blinks, warmth finding its way into her heart for the spirit child. He smiles, the barest hint of expression before he disappears. Turning away from the pyre, Elle makes her way around the survivors, telling them gently they would ride through the night rather than stay within the keep walls. There were no objections.

The moon watches over them as the group marches solemnly away from Therinfal Redoubt. Elle barely breathes until the place is far behind them. She cannot shake what happened within her own mind. That, for her, had been the worst of the trial that retrieving the Templars had become.

Her mind slides to the events without prompting, the lack of conversation or anything else to engage her mind allowing it to attempt to process everything that had happened to it. Cold steals up from the soles of her feet, from the tips of her fingers before it settles in her chest.

It had been a terribly disturbing affair. Walking amongst the burning corpses, Envy taking Leliana’s form, killing Cullen in the nightmare just to shock her. Just to see what her reaction would be; to learn her.  It had mocked her, attempting to mimic her tone and pitch when she’d yelled for it to stop the lies. When it had taken Josie’s form, she’d questioned it about the Elder One. She needed to know what she was up against. The answers had been predictably unhelpful.

And when it took Cullen’s form. A shiver wracks her. She’d never been particularly fond of the former Knight Commander, but now. She doesn’t know how to face him. She’d seen his form kill hers, had heard him demand to know what she saw, what she felt. It had distressed her so much, seeing Envy take that form, take it and pervert it for its own needs.

Elle had made a mistake in that moment. A mistake that cost her. In her fear, she had thought of Solas. Solas who she fought with, Solas who kept her alive, who worried for her, who pushed her to be better. And Envy had grasped that knowledge with both hands.

Yet it had not used it against her in that moment. No, it had waited, shown her a memory – of when she woke when she had been questioned by Cassandra. Then a glimpse of what it would do as her. Its inaccuracy had made her blood twist and she had barked at it. Helped it, like a fool.

And it had continued to show her what it would do as her. How it would use her having chosen the People before duty or religion to corrupt the world. It had been a scene she couldn’t look away from no matter how she dodged nightmare fires to get away from it all.

It was just before she found Cole, or Cole found her, that Envy struck out with Solas. The elder Elvhen man had appeared when she passed the first fire obstacle. The shade had cornered her. He’d crowded her against the wall, so reminiscent of the days just before she’d left to come to Redoubt.  It had demanded to know her. It had stolen a kiss – just as he had in her dream. This kiss, however, was all wrong. Envy took and took from her, had advanced where Solas would have paused.

The kiss in her dream had been gentle. Stolen, but gentle. Envy bruised her, or would have had it been in the waking world. She’d bitten the demon, as violently as she could. It got the demon to let her go, and she had run to a different part of the nightmare.

It had been when she met Cole, and from there he’d helped her to defeat the demon within the nightmare. Still, she can’t forget what had occurred. Her hands run over her face and slumps in her saddle.

“It wasn’t him. He burns too bright, he wouldn’t.”  
“Cole, please.” Her words are a whispered plea. Thankfully, Cole heeds her plea and stays silent. He stays behind her on the horse, oddly the presence comforts her. He feels of the fade, it reminds her of – of.

She digs her heels into her mare, and lets it take her to the front of the march. No one says anything. There’s no need really, everyone understands or assumes they do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has given me so much trouble. None of the characters would cooperate. It took three tries to get this done, so I hope ya'll enjoy it.


	16. The Beginnings of Fall out from Redoubt

Three days, it takes three days for Haven to come into view for the sad troupe of surviving nobles, Templars, and Inquisition scouts who’d come with Giselle to Redoubt. Three days of no sleep. Three days of pulling heavily on the Fade to keep herself from falling off her horse or falling asleep as she rode.

No one said a word, but Elle knew she looked a fright. She’d stopped wrapping her hair the second day on the road. It flutters in the wind behind her, white as the snow. There are bags under her eyes, she can feel the puffy quality and telltale dryness of them. Her joints ache, a lack of sleep and relaxation causing the minor strains to become more pronounced.

To see Haven, however, to know they had made it back and demons weren’t about to crawl out of the woodwork half way down the road, Elle felt joy. It is a brief feeling, quickly overtaken by dread, worry and her ever present exhaustion. But she hides it admirably, her dismount from her horse is fluid, she takes her packs without a word, as do the rest, and they all disperse. The Nobles to cabins to rest before they continue to Orlais, quiet murmurs of thanks to her and the inquisition for saving their lives passing their lips as they go. The Templars head straight for the Chantry, likely to find out where they were expected to stay.

Elle lets her feet take her toward her cabin. She smiles in acknowledgement of greetings, but does not stop to talk or unload her packs of things that would garner good coin. Solas is outside his cabin when she makes it to hers. His eyes are narrow, studying as she makes her way to the door. He says nothing, and she does not pause. Cannot. She is so tired. It would be safe to sleep here.

 

\-------------- 

 

Solas watches Giselle-Sophia walk from the stables; all his senses focused on the woman. She is haggard. That she hasn’t hidden her hair from view is telling. Her movements while fluid and graceful, carry an air of weariness he cannot ignore. When she says nothing about his scrutiny and the way he feels she is drawing from the fade that confirms his assumption.

The Herald has not slept. He cannot even hazard a guess as to why or for how long, but he knows she is far past the point of exhaustion and actively endangering herself. His mouth thins in a line, and he moves away from their little circle of houses, toward where he can usually find Varric.

Except Varric is not by the fire as he normally is. It takes Solas a few minutes to find him from there, tucked into a corner of the Tavern. He has a haunted look in his eyes as Solas takes a seat across from him. Indicating for Flissa’s attention, Solas orders a small meal and wine, waiting until they are set in front of him to even attempt to breach the silence.

“Chuckles, I know you’re going to ask.”

“You are correct, Master Tethras. What happened?”

“An Envy demon happened, corrupted Templars happened.” The dwarf’s voice is rough, eyes going hard as he answers succinctly. “Sparkler, she got the worst of it. We made it to the keep of Redoubt after cutting a bloody path through Templars encrusted with red lyrium and Envy took her. Not her physically but her mind, it was like time stopped for five minutes. She was frozen, wide eyed, terror on her face. I’ve never seen the like of that, Solas.” Varric grimaces, clearly picturing the scene.

“I don’t even know what Envy did to her, tried to do to her. But when she got free? She was white, screaming in the kind of rage I didn’t think possible of her.” He sighs, sliding his hands over his face.

Solas waits, silent and expectant for Varric to continue. He makes a study of the blonde man, eating his stew in careful and precise motions while his stomach rolled. Envy. They were a traitorous lot, they would pull and prod and violate until they knew all of you there was to know if they weren’t quickly ousted.

“Did you know, that Giselle’s magic is tightly reined in? I don’t know if it’s her or all mages, but when she came out of whatever trance that demon had her in, the air started shimmering. The temperature ratcheted up to the height of summer around her, the rain that hit her sizzled, Solas. It fucking sizzled. And she was like a battering ram. It would have been beautiful if I weren’t so terrified.

Hell, none of the Templars dared step in her way. Barris watched her, but he didn’t make a move to smite or silence her, even when she rained fire down on the corrupted ones that would flood in every time we saved one of the officers that were still uncorrupted. She could have set the world on fire, I was convinced she would. But even with her magic like that? Nothing she didn’t want in flames went up.”

There is awe in Varric now, and he takes a moment to grasp his ale, take a good few pulls from it to wet his throat and keep going. Solas, he’s fascinated. He knew that Giselle-Sophia was a powerful mage, but he had not even considered the possibility she was not just suited to fire, but mired in the element. It was something worth exploring.

“Please, go on. Something has her so she didn’t sleep – “

“Oh, I know. That stubborn woman took every watched, drank more lyrium than I think was probably healthy for her and drove us hard to get away from that maker forsaken fortress. When we took down Envy – it would take her form. Ten feet tall and an exact replica of Sparkler. That just made Giselle fight harder, though. It wasn’t until that damnable demon took _your_ form that Sparkler faltered at all.”

The news makes Solas’ head snap up from where it had been studying the stew. Envy had taken his form? It did it to make Giselle-Sophia falter. So, it stood to reason the Herald did not want harm to come to him. Or, she was simply hesitant the demon would use his magic against her?

“What do you mean faltered.”

“I mean her magic sputtered out. Like someone had taken a wet cloth and put it on a candle. The demon took advantage of it. If the Seeker, Tiny, and I hadn’t been there as her back up she might have more bruises than she does. It was – I’ve never seen a mage have that happen before. But we won, in the end, her magic flared and she rallied. She’s leashed the Templars, Solas. Disbanded them and basically conscripted them into the Inquisition. She’s – there’s a lot on her mind, I think.” He finishes the recounting with a sigh, leaning back in the chair.

The God-Spirit let's silence reign, focusing on finishing his food. If she hadn’t slept for days, she was far more susceptible in the fade. She would be too tired to put up her usual mental barriers. He eats faster.

When his spoon smacks against the bowl bottom, Solas sits back in his chair. He looks at Varric and nods his head. “Thank you, Varric. I’m going to go make sure her dreams are safe. You should take a sleeping draught and rest. It didn’t look like any of you had when you came through the gates.”

“Sure Chuckles.” He is watching Solas carefully and as the elder man stands, he speaks again. “I don’t know what Envy did, or why it used you against her, but be careful with her, Solas. She’s fragile right now, beyond this shit with the Breach, she’s still got to worry about the Mage-Templar war, and now her son. So be careful.”

Solas grunts in reply, making his way out of the Tavern, and all but running to his own Cabin. Inside, he lays himself on the top of his bed, willing himself to sleep within breaths. He had to go make sure she was alright.

 

\------- 

 

Sometimes, Elle detests the clarity with which Mages dream. She hates their free fall connection to the fade. If spirits were the only thing their dreams attracted, she wouldn’t mind it so much. If all she ever dreamed of when she came here were good things, good memories, she would not hate the Fade like she does in this moment.

Of all places to be dreaming, her mind has taken her back to Redoubt. And instead of Templars, true Templars, she fights off demons. Not the ones of make believe but ones who have been watching her, waiting for opportunities like this. Rage, Sorrow, Despair, Desire, they are all plaguing her tonight.  And it is not just one, no. If ever she had thought demons mindless, she would never feel that way again.

There are waves of them, working in concert to torment her. Desire takes Solas’ form while rage goads her into attacking others of it’s kind, dressing themselves as corrupted Knights. But it isn’t just any Templars, they are family, friends, trusted protectors.

It makes it harder to throw magic at them, and all the while the Desire in Solas’ form tries to tempt her. She would be safe, if she took him to her bed, into her heart. No one would dare make them part. They would keep one another safe, their power would expand, they could defeat this Elder One and make a place just for themselves.

The whispers come and do not stop. Honey venom that chips away at her. Despair and Sorrow create the wails of a child, they bring back the black pit that she had thrown herself into when the child was taken away.

But she persists, refusing desire and rage, ignoring sorrow and despair for all that she is worth. It is how Solas finds her.

Solas barely had to look for Giselle in the fade. Her distress permeated the fade here, so close to his own sleeping form. The sheer amount of demons jockeying to get control of her stuns him. It also makes a perverse amount of sense. Any demon that took her would have the ability to rip the veil for their fellows. Giselle did not use the anchor for that, but they knew it to be a possibility. If a door could be closed, it could also be opened.

He is beyond rage to see her so attacked. Striding toward her, toward the small horde plaguing her, his rage deepens when he sees himself. A far too perfect version of himself. There are no scars, he is far more robust than he is currently. In truth the form presented had to have been gleaned from echos of him within the Fade, for this is a far younger version of himself.

It was Desire and it dared mimic him. With a low growl that reverberates, Solas lets all in the Fade know he is there. The sound makes Elle jump, a gasp that threatens to be a scream stuck in her throat.  But Solas’ form, the feel of that Solas, of his magic - she is certain it’s the real one. It has to be, the way he stalks into the fray, the flow of his magic shoving the horde away from them in a single flick of his hand. Only Desire lingers and she steps toward Solas. Relief floods her and she is far too happy to see him here to be ashamed.

“You dare,” his voice is lower than she’s used to, and it makes her flinch before she realizes that is not being directed at her. Desire relinquishes it’s hold on Solas’ form, morphing back into it’s purple ambiguity.

“Of course, and why should I not? She holds secrets and your form is the perfect way to get her to agree to letting me in.” Its words are smug and Elle swings around violently. She can’t look at Solas, for fear of what his face will see on hers.

“You beast! You opportunistic.”

“Abomination.” It’s rumbled from behind her, Solas’ bulk stepping up against the back of her and his hand reaching past his shoulder. Desire does not have a chance, ice encases it within seconds. Barely a breath later, the ice shatters.

Elle’s breath whooshes out of her in shock. She does not move, taking in what has happened, what Solas did. Her breaths are deep but she does not move.  She doesn’t move away when Solas lets his hand settle on her shoulder.

There is no appreciation when Therinfal melts away and a meadow takes its pace. Solas, carefully, gingerly, moves his hand to hers, grasping it, pulling her toward a flowering tree providing shade from the sunshine. He bids her sit, puts pressure on her shoulders to get her to do so, before sitting beside her himself.

“Giselle, come back.”

The white-haired woman snaps to attention, grey eyes finding blue in a breath. She is ashen, her usual golden complexion washed out, almost gray. Her eyes slide over his face, as if reassuring herself he is the right version. That he is not too perfect. Those wide eyes linger on the scar, the freckles, the slight wiry nature of his frame. It takes a while, but he is rewarded in his patience when she draws a shaky breath and utters an equally shaky call of his name.

“I am here, lethallan. I should have gone with you to redoubt. You stretch yourself too far.”

“It – Solas.” Her words catch in her throat and she looks away, face burning in shame. “Envy, it took hold of a memory, took your form, violated it.”

Now it’s his turn to tense. He can imagine the tactics Envy might use to get it’s way. He hopes, that she was not violated in such a manner that would. Well, he simply hopes Envy did not do what he fears. At the same time, Solas files away the knowledge Giselle is not so unaffected by him as she likes to pretend. He would build on that. He would sway her to his side. He knew he could with time.

“Did it hurt you?” The stress on the third word makes her flinch.

“No. Not like that. But it took a memory that. It took a memory and twisted it.” If possible, he watches her face become a stronger crimson. Now he is bolstered. If she kept that memory in any sort of regard, he had a better chance than he originally thought after bungling the earlier attempts.

“Shall I fix it?” That comes out unbidden, though he does not blush or seem embarrassed at all.

Elle looks at him. Face colored with shock. Be that shock from upset he would dare presume, or simply at the offer he cannot guess. It seems to him that she weighs him. Her eyes slipping from his to look at his mouth before moving away. Her breath hitches and he only has to wait a moment before –

“Yes.” Elle didn’t care to think about this. Not really. She had almost lost herself today and while Solas vexed her in ways she had never thought possible; and she had almost lost him too in a way. Had Envy taken her, she would never have been able to have this moment.

He was frustrating, maddening, and altogether too smug at times, but he was also sincere and caring. Yes, they disagreed – passionately, but at the same time.

His lips on hers take her by surprise, making her eyes blown wide before falling shut. Chaste, like the kiss before that had taken her so by surprise and angered her. He was, it seemed to her, prone to doing this when she least expected it. He is tense, waiting for her to pull away, and again, Elle mentally throws caution to the wind. It’s one moment. One. She can and will take it for herself.

Her mouth softens against his, lips moving carefully. She can feel the surprise that jolts Solas, but he does not pull away from her. His head tilts, lips moving, surprisingly soft for all that he did not use cosmetics nor seemingly bother with such vanities. His right hand settles on the curve of her shoulder, where it meets her neck and she sighs into the kiss. It’s involuntary but sparks something within the elven man before her. His lips press harder against hers, coax hers apart and the heat of his tongue against hers stuns her. A soft gasp, an answering smirk and she loses herself to it in the next moment.

He doesn’t know how far he can push this, how much she is willing for him to have. Spirits know he wants to take all of her and more. But, he cannot. It would put him right back where it had some weeks ago, she would be upset, wary. So, he settles for learning the taste of her, finding what motions of his mouth make her shiver and sigh so pleasantly. The Spirit doesn’t push farther, he does not press against her. He does not touch her but where their lips meet and his hand rests on her throat. He lets the kiss go on, well, it is more than one kiss, it is several that continue into one another, but still, they linger, he lingers at her mouth.

But, like all things, this does not last forever. Eventually, Giselle places her hand on top of his and her lips guide his back to the land of chastity and then part from his altogether. His eyes open as it happens, and take in the glory of her in that moment.

Lips redden from his, swollen from the kisses, her cheeks dusted pink, eyes not opening just yet; her breath coming in sips. She is a vision, and Solas will remember this moment with her for the rest of his days. Those lovely grey eyes finally slide open, and with a soft smile, Elle shimmers out of existence back to the waking world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Christmas, my dears. This chapter took my by storm. I hope that bodes well for the rest of it. I hope you all enjoy your holy days and family ( or alone ) time.


	17. Unexpected Reunions

The waking world greets Elle abruptly. One moment she was looking at Solas, studying the freckles dotting his nose and cheeks, looking at surprisingly kind blue eyes, and the next she is awake, looking at the ceiling of her cabin. She does not immediately get out of her bed. Instead, the sun kissed woman watches the dust as it travels in the air, reflecting sunlight.

She watches its movement and contemplates what had happened the night prior. Never had the fade been so unhospitable for her. And like a warden, Solas had appeared. It had been, she couldn’t really describe it. He’d shown a mastery over the Fade she couldn’t comprehend. He had batted a swarm of demons away with a thought.

That revelation makes respect well under her breast for Solas. He was far more than his humble attire and sharp opinions. A hand settles over her face. Far more experienced than her, as well. Especially if that kiss had been anything to go by.

A soft gasp breaks the silence of the room. She had invited him to kiss her, asked him to replace the memory Envy had ruined and right it again. Maker, how foolish of her. How utterly childish. She’d resolved to not do something like this. She did not need romance, did not need the distraction from the cause. Yet here she was, asking for kisses like a damsel from her knight.

It makes her sit up in the bed, the heavy fur at the foot of her bed weighing her down, but not stopping her. Elle wouldn’t do this. She wouldn’t. Solas – she enjoyed his company, he is intelligent, handsome, capable, entirely attractive. Yet some of his opinions, they didn’t mesh with hers. It caused so much strife between them now. To take him into her heart? It’s folly. They would become distracted. It was inevitable.

Her legs are pulled from the blankets. She didn’t remember getting into the bed properly.  She barely remembered if she’d taken off her boots. Perhaps one of Leliana’s people had been instructed to check on her? No. That was out of character for the Spy Mistress. Josephine, this was more something she would do or have done. Check on the Herald, ensure she was comfortable – yes that was absolutely Ambassador Montilyet to a T.

Her fingers, callused, more so now than ever before, pull at her armor. She would have to clean the sheets, not to mention her armor. The sight of the blood stains makes her mouth pull into a deep frown. Methodically the heavy cloth and leathers are removed. Gentle thuds sound in the cabin until Giselle is bare, moving to the desk where her water pitcher and wash basin sit.

The water is frigid, but it is nothing to trace a gentle fire rune onto the jug and warm it. Tepid was better than frigid. Still, the young woman cleans herself briskly. Her soap smells of crystal grace flowers, the one real indulgence she affords herself here. Her hair is soaped, rinsed and wrung out with care. It’s combed, plaited and wrapped around her head, pinned in place. The wrapping of it is quick, hands having become deft in the motions after so many years of doing so.

Clean clothing is retrieved from her trunk, and Elle makes a note to go to the lake later and do her laundry. There were people who’d not hesitate to do it for her, but she is loath to ask them. It was not anyone’s job but her own to was gore from her clothing, to rub at the stains. She gathers them all into a basket for easy transportation later, emptying her pack of clothing and food stuffs to inspect. The rest stays in, and she slings it over her shoulder intending on emptying it of junk and a few more valuable pieces. The armor weights her down considerably and that is what she leaves the cabin to deal with first.

It is amazing what having her hair out and head down does for her anonymity within the walls of Haven. She navigates the town with ease, no one taking more than a glance at her. It could also be because her robes are off, stashed away to be washed. Usually she just wore those around. Another thing used to identify her apparently. Her trading isn’t interrupted, junk appraised for a handful of coppers here and there, trinkets for silvers and sometimes gold. By the time, she is done, her purse is considerably heavier while her pack is empty. It’s only now that she makes her way to the chantry.

Her lips pull into small smile after small smile as people greet her. She’s handed fruits, people reach out, touching her coat but never her directly. It is a practice that still has her squirming uncomfortably, but she tolerates it. Let the people have their faith, it has certainly been a balm for her.

She has just taken a bite of an apple when she pushes her way into the chantry and a voice drifts back to her. Two voices. One deep, lyrical, a touch of that wonderful Marcher accent, and the other is a higher tenor, markedly Orlesian. Giselle doesn’t breathe, but her feet do drag her closer to the voices. It would be too much. Too great a blessing if that voice belongs to who she hopes it does.

“You say the Herald has an interest in the boy?” Curiosity, hope. She nearly chokes on the apple piece and takes off running for the room they are in. That was. Maker, it was _him_ , he was alive. Her son. Some of those present look on curiously as the normally composed Herald barrels down the hall of the chantry. She goes straight for Josephine’s office, determining that to be where the voices were. The door slams open, and she must look a sight, breathing harder than she ought, small frame spread to fill the door way, eyes wild.

“Sophie? By the –“

Elle launches herself at him. The apple is dropped, her arms wrap around his shoulders and he catches her around the waist, drawing her into a tight hug. Her eyes sting, she doesn’t know what to say but she immediately starts to speak.

“I thought. I hoped, you would be safe, but when the Circles started to rise up and be annulled –“

“Only you could find yourself right in the middle of a holy calling, Sophie.”

“I was so scared they’d done something unforgivable when you were transferred out of Ostwick!”

“Hearty and hale, Sophie, hearty and hale.” His voice is soft and she cannot keep her face pressed into the throat of his robes. She pulls away, eyes greedily taking in his face. Those deep brown eyes, so deceptively intimidating when she had been young. He has the beginnings of crow’s feet around his eyes, his brow – there are lines above it. Fine and unnoticeable until you are looking very closely. That jaw of his is still uncommonly wide for an elf, sharp, strong, his ears proud still.  

It’s not until she looks at his facial tattoo that she notices. His vallaslin has not faded, the gentle scroll work on one side of his face, it had not faded, but it was marred. Enough that it takes her breath away, the youth of him in that moment is gone, and she itches to reach up and trace the scarring cutting his Vallaslin in half. Ten years. Ten long years since she has seen this face. Since she has held him, known where he was, could hear his voice. Tears sting at her eyes and her smile is shaky. Ten years and a war – that has not left him unscarred.

“Alhannon, you’re _here_.”

“Yes, ma vhenan, it looks like we finally get to be in the same room with one another again.”

It is as if the world around Giselle-Sophia has melted away. She’s content to have her hands on her newly found former lover, content to study his face. She’s tempted now that he is here, to see if his kiss is still the same as her memory, when a delicate cough makes her jerk away, warmth staining her face.

“Ambassador – “

“It’s all right, Lady Trevelyan.” Josie’s eyes are suspiciously bright, and her smile soft. Her head indicates the other person in the room and grey eyes follow her nod. The child is slight, but his shoulders are strong and held back with his head held high. Alhannon’s eyes stare at her, and her worry frowns those lips.

She had never thought. She didn’t dare assume she would _know_ him when he was presented to her. Elle hadn’t dared dream. Her eyes dart back to Josie, a question desperately telegraphed by her eyes. The other woman takes pity on you, smile turning, if possible, gentler.

“In the end, My Lady, someone pulled strings and he kept your family name.”

Her knees are weak, and her fingers dig into the male beside her for stability. He does not deny her it. She barely notices the fact that his hands have dug into her waist unforgivingly.

“Sophie –“

“What is your name?” The Herald cuts off her lover, eyes still on the boy. He doesn’t squirm, he doesn’t cow under their combined scrutiny. If anything, he now radiates pride, a smile on his face that reminds Giselle of Tara. It screams of her sister, and her heart aches.

“I am Calen Trevelyan.” He wears his name with pride, and Elle chokes back a sob. There is so much of her family in him. It’s as if the boy has only inherited his father’s slight stature and eyes.  “Are you a part of the Trevelyan family as well? The Lady Ambassador did say your name was Trevelyan. Are we related?”

Innocence. How has he retained such innocence? Elle’s throat tries to work as she disentangles herself from Alhannon’s arms. She does not separate from him entirely, hand seeking his and granted it within moments.

“Yes, w-we are. Did they tell you who your mother was?”

“A mage, my lady,” now he looks uncomfortable and her heart breaks. “The sisters who cared for me said she was a disgrace to our name, the only with magic for generations.”

A lance of pain sears through her. They had tried to turn her child from her. Maker take them all. “I – Calen, I’m your.”

“We’re your parents, da’len.” Alhannon’s baritone washes over her, fills the room and Elle holds her breath. She waits for rejection, for anger, for something. She is not entirely disappointed. Confusion cloud’s the boy’s eyes, dark wide eyes that dart between them before something seemingly clicks.

“They never said both my parents were mages. I always assumed, that it had been a Templar. There were so many Templar children with us in the chantry.”

Elle doesn’t know what to do with that. There’s nothing for her to read in his tone, and the hand in hers tightens to the point of pain. She swallows a few times, to ignore the pain as her head moving to look at Josie before coming back to rest on Calen.

“Are you – are you upset?”

“No.”

“Confused, angry-“

“I don’t know. I didn’t think to ever meet you if what they had told me was true. I thought I would be a part of the Order by my fifteenth year, a squire for one of the other knights. But everything has changed with the war.” His voice is soft, words carefully chosen, the level of his education evident. This was her _son_.

“May I ask your names at least? I don’t think I could call you Mother and Father, not. Not yet.” His face lights up with color and Elle must laugh, a watery sounding thing.

“My name is Giselle-Sophia, but you are free to call me Elle.”

“Alhannon, I am afraid I haven’t got a nickname for you to use.”

“It – I am blessed to meet you both.”

 

\--

 

Giselle-Sophia walks from the chantry sometime later with Alhannon at her back, dazed, and a touch elated. Their hands are still clasped and she is still a touch wobbly as she walks. She needs a bit of wine and a lot of food to take all this in. Wordlessly she directs them toward the Tavern, and slides inside with barely a sound. Elle finds the smallest, most secluded table she can, ignoring Sera’s call to her, and sitting on the bench heavily.

Alhan, bless him, he is silent. He follows her without a fuss, sits beside her without protest. He must order for them because a steaming bowl of porridge with honey and fruit is sat before her, tea with it. Her eyes blink at it, as if she cannot possibly comprehend its presence or purpose.

With a grunt, she is hauled into the slight man’s lap, and tea pressed into her hands as he slides into the corner, dragging their meals with him. He gives her a moment before tipping her face toward him with a single long finger crooked under her chin.

“Sophie, come back to me.” He murmurs it into her hair, arms banded around her, waiting out her little episode. He’d seen it before. Whenever Giselle had a shock to her system, this would happen. When she found herself with child, when she had first lost control of her magic and gotten smite by a Templar.

He knew to wait her out. To let her system rest itself. The gentle encouragements help.  She is silent, the tea warm between them, but at least she doesn’t spill it. After a while he takes the tea, sitting it to the side, so he may hold her tighter.

There was so much to say. He knew they couldn’t pick up where they’d left off. He’d be a fool to even dream that. He longed for it, however. To find his Vhenan again, it’s blessing from the creators that he won’t take lightly. As he holds her, whispers soothing encouragements for her to come back from her retreat, he lets his eyes sweep the Tavern. The elven woman that had called to Sophie was watching them. There is a scowl on her face. Not a fan, then. Though Alhannon won’t hazard a guess as to whether she dislikes him or Sophia.  A dwarven man enters from the side entrance, of which they have a clear view, he’s followed by an elven man. Bare faced, taller than average, no Vallaslin on his face – a flat ear. It’s as if his study brings the other man’s attention.

Alhannon has never seen a more thunderstruck or murderous look on a person’s face. To anyone looking it would be terribly subtle. But Alhannon has made it a point to read facial features, it kept him out of solitary, kept him from losing privileges and from being beaten by Templars. This little talent of his had kept him from getting himself lashed or worse by those he had fallen in with during the rebellion.

But yes,  he can see it in those hooded eyes, the anger sparking in them. It’s in the tense hold of the man, who had been almost relaxed upon entering the Tavern. The way the muscle of the man’s jaw twitches, and the resolute way he turns his head away from Sophie and him.

Interesting. An admirer? Or did Sophie have a thing for Elvhen mages? He can’t see her as a fetishist. That didn’t fit her personality at all. It is amusing however, and he lets a smirk pull his lips, settling farther into the darkness of the corner. Whoever that was, he could stew. He was taking full advantage of being near Sophia again. And she had been his _first_.

 

\---

 

Solas was keeping a tenuous grip on himself. A Dalish mage, clearly caught by the circle, if the robes were indication, was holding the Herald. Holding her as if he had a right to her. He could hear the murmurs.

_Sophie_.

She didn’t let anyone call her that. Sophia is what she’d instructed them to call her if they couldn’t stop using the first part of her given name. Sophia, not Sophie. Clearly the man had some intimate knowledge of her. It grates at him. Just last night, she had given him leave to kiss her. It did not matter if it was in the Fade or the waking world, she had invited his attention.

And now she was curled around some other man? It is unacceptable. An unhappy rumble shakes his chest. He notes the way Varric is watching him as he sits stiffly. He’s sure he’s hiding most of his anger. But then, he couldn’t be sure, he has never had to hide it in centuries past. He’s never had to scheme and plan quite like this before. Oh, he had to plan and scheme to seal away his wayward fellows, but it was a fast-moving plan, thanks to his lack of diminishment at that time. Now he will likely wait months, possibly years for this mistake to resolve itself.

To add insult to injury his chosen is wrapped in the embrace of another man. It is an insult he would never let stand when he was at his height. But he is not. And Elle is strong enough she would attempt to put him in his perceived place, if he tried now. Instead he sits and glowers into the cup of ale when it is presented to him.

“Chuckles,”  
“Yes, Master Tethras?”

“The new guy, over there. Is that _Giselle_ in his lap?”

Fucking _rogues_. His hands tighten on the cup, he makes a show of looking over to the corner and looking away. “It would appear so.”

Tethras looks intrigued. He shifts forward, looking over into the corner and sitting back. He thinks, and stays silent. It’s a blessed thing. But not to last, the dwarf snaps his fingers pointing at Solas.

“That must be the guy who the Spy-Master’s people brought the mini-herald! I heard some talk of it when we got in last night. Apparently, the kid still had her last name, which blew Leliana right out of the water. No one expected it. But then, Nobles. One of her siblings or cousins or some shit must have been told and made sure the records reflected it. Soft touch that Trevelyan family. Well, at least parts of it.”

The intrigued expression hasn’t fallen, and Solas feels curiosity take hold of him. So, the child had been found. Perhaps that was why the man had her in his lap. Comfort from the shock? Much like he had given the night prior in their dreams. Though, Solas had not taken such liberties with her person as that male was. It rankles him. It will continue to rankle him.

“It is a good thing someone let the boy have her name. Else we would likely have been looking for him far longer than we have been.” It is a great pride to him that his voice betrays none of his anger. “Perhaps now the child is secure, she may have a measure of peace while we endeavor to complete the Inquisition’s task.”

“Maybe. Looks to me like our new elf is trying to do that though.” The words are sly, and Varric makes no secret of gauging Solas’ reaction. For his part, Solas keeps his face as blank as he is able; though his hands tighten to the point they become almost bloodless in their grip around the damnable mug of alcohol. He does not grace the remark with a reply.

 

\--

 

Elle comes back to herself in measures. Her mind had shut itself off, in a manner of speaking, to deal with the events of the last four days. It was – there was much to handle. So much, and she had a terrible feeling there would only be more now that Alhannon and Calen were here.

It’s the scent of him that jolts her from the depths of her mind. For reasons very much known to her, she’d associated the wiry feel of his frame with someone rather different. But he does not smell of snow and herbs, doesn’t radiate calm power. Alhannon smells of forest, still, after all his years locked up in a tower, he smells of trees, and feels like a turbulent lake rushes just under his skin. A deep breath, another, she lets her eyes close slowly, leans into the person she had missed so desperately.

It should comfort her, the differences between the two men she is most intimate with, but it doesn’t. A finger crooks under her chin, tilts her head back so he can look at her. She watches those orbs of darkness take her in. Elle had always loved those eyes. Irises so dark you couldn’t tell between them and the cornea. She had adored seeing the way they lit when he smiled, delighted when they narrowed in annoyance at those who would tease them, and when they had darkened in passion. A shiver runs down her spine when she remembers what that had looked like.

Yet what she wants to see are storm blue eyes with a piercing quality that never left them. It makes her turn her head away from Alhannon, face warming, but hopefully not coloring. Thankfully, he has not kept the quality that would have had him chasing her for answers.

His hand drops, settling on her thigh, squeezing it reassuringly. “You were gone a while, Vhenan.”

“I’m sorry,” the words come out as a whisper. “A lot has happened, and to see you both. I never thought it might happen. It was – shocking.”

“It’s all right, Sophie, I remember how you get. I just didn’t remember how long you could retreat.” The baritone is soothing, but again, lacks a quality she craves. She keeps her face hidden but jolts when Alhannon lifts a hand to the wrapping on her hair.

“When did you start to do this? Why did you start to do this?  You look like a Chantry mother.” His tone makes her cringe and she quickly extricates herself from his hold.

“When they sent you away, when they took Calen, I fared badly. I was almost made Tranquil had the First Enchanter not stepped in. Between his kindness and that of the Mother in the chantry – I wouldn’t be here, Alhannon. My faith and dedication to my craft saved me.”

Thankfully Alhan doesn’t make a grab for her, or prevent her from sliding off his lap and away from him. The sight of food makes Elle’s stomach growl loudly, and she falls on the food with little grace. She is not so graceless as Sera or some of the Chargers could be, but for her, it was graceless. The snort next to her makes her raise a brow, looking at her companion pointedly. Holding his hands up in defeat, Alhannon turns his attention to his own food.

In the relative silence that falls, Elle looks around the tavern carefully. Sera is glowering at their corner. Varric – Maker’s ass, _Solas_ is in the tavern. Her heart drops to her feet and suddenly she cannot finish the meal. She pushes it away, startling her former lover.

“I need to talk to my companions, I will – I’m in a cabin by the alchemist. You can find me there if you need to talk. If you want to talk.” And she is out of her seat, legs eating the distance between herself and Solas. The young woman has no idea what she is going to say to him. How she will begin to explain what he doubtlessly saw. The Maker could not be so kind as to have hidden her well enough Solas wouldn’t see.

Barely a foot from him and his head turns, nostrils flaring and eyes looking all the way to her very soul. It almost stops her dead in her tracks, but she will not be deterred. He cannot be left to assume what is not true.

“Walk with me.” Her tone shakes, but it’s strong too. His presence is demanded, not asked for. Head held high, she strides from the tavern, aware of Solas following her, his magic wrapped tightly around him but pulsing in irritation. Elle is also aware of a dark pair of eyes watching them leave. Maker take her, this could not possibly end well.

She speeds her gait as they head toward the cabins. Solas keeps stride, and just a step behind her. It makes the hairs on her neck stand on end. She feels hunted. But the mage refuses to run. She will run from nothing any longer.  Her feet lead them not to her little home but Solas’. Elle doesn’t quite trust Alhannon to keep to himself. As much as she was gladdened to see him, this complicated things.

The door opens and shuts behind them, thrusting them into darkness. Solas does not light any candles. He could with a wave of his hand. It would be no bother, and Elle could do the same. She takes a breath and her hand lifts to do so when it is grabbed, she is spun and thrust against the wall. The force of it knocks the breath from her, and her pulse pounds in her ears.

“Maker, Solas what are you –“ The words are silenced in her throat. He silenced her. Solas fucking silenced her. Rage boils under her skin and her magic unfurls itself, heating the room.

“Am I so easily set aside, _Sophie_?” Damn his jealousy. Damn him. Damn her for responding to this. Her heart beats wildly and she notes he has not penned her in. She can move if she wants to.

Her mouth opens, and her voice returns abruptly. “Maker take you. It isn’t like that! I have not seen him since we were sixteen, Solas. Sixteen! He is Calen’s _father_.”

As if that had been the thing that would make the situation better. The wolf in Solas howls, and the echo of it rumbles from Solas, a low intimidating sound. Elle bolts from the wall; completely forgetting that Elves had the blessing to see in darkness. Four steps and she is pinned against a wall again, this time between the wall and Solas’ body.

“So, is it elves that attract you so, Giselle?”

“Don’t be crass! Him being an elf has nothing to do with –“Her words die in her throat. Oh Maker.

Elle can’t see the wolfish smile that spreads on Solas’ lips. She’s as good as admitted an attraction to him. Perhaps he would not have to work so hard for her after all. His head dips close to her, lips brushing her jaw. “It is nothing to do with what? Your attraction to me perhaps?”

He can feel the way her heart thrums in her chest, they are that close now. He can hear her breath hitch, and he can _smell_ her. He’d never thought to taste the air around her before this. In the fade, it would have been pointless. But here, oh here, it is useful. Even if her scent is overlaid with that _remnants_ scent, her arousal is there just barely.

“S-Solas. Stop. You know we can’t –“

“And, why can’t we? Because you have a duty, because you’ve a son? Giselle-Sophia none of those things bar us from a relationship. None of that bars me from having you in my arms.”

Oh, to the void with him. His pursuit of her is like nothing she’s had to deal with before. Templars being vulgar, trying to take what they wanted from her, she was equipped for that. Gentle fumbling of teenagers, she knows how to deal with that. Solas is relentless, but he has taken nothing from her. Her reasons for avoiding him are flimsy at best. She wasn’t so flighty and airheaded that she could not balance a romantic interest and her duties. So many before her had done similar things. Kings and Queens could rule countries while being in love. Surely, she could find a murderer and still lose herself in Solas?

“Solas, we can’t.” Her voice is soft, pleading for him to leave her be. If he doesn’t, her resolve will break. Because as much as his angers her, challenges her, she wants him.

“Yes, we can. You simply have to reach out and take what it is you want.” His voice is low, dangerous, tempting. If Elle wasn’t certain this wasn’t the Fade, she would think him to be Desire. But it’s not. She can feel the heat of him, smell the ale on his breath. He will not take what she will not give.

“Solas –“

“Choose. Now. It is him or I, _Sophie_. I will not tolerate seeing you in his arms when just the night before you let me –“

Elle turns her head and surges forward, crushing her mouth against Solas’. It hurts, to choose. But hadn’t she chosen already, when she did not wallow in her sorrow, when she saved herself from Tranquility with the Maker’s word and the First Enchanter’s guidance? She is not a soft teenager any longer, coddle by the comfort of her station within the Circle Tower. She has never had the luxury of time, yet already Solas has given her weeks.

Alhannon, he – he would always have a part of her heart.

To kiss Solas in the flesh is far different from a dream. She is surrounded by his warmth, his magic, his scent. His hands settle on her waist, while hers fist in his shirt. His lips are not as soft as they were in the fade, but nor were hers she’d wager. He is not as gentle here. Perhaps it is his anger over seeing her in another’s arms that did it, but he ravages her. In moments, her mouth has been opened by his and he plunders her, dragging whimpers from her as she lets him.

The kiss, his complete domination of it, makes her squeeze her thighs together as heat curls between them. Alhannon was not like this. He had ever been sweetness and caring, gentle sweeps of his lips, careful explorations. Solas kissed her as if she might die tomorrow, as if all that she was and would be was his and his alone. He crushes her against the wall, lifts her so the angle is easier, hands under her thighs and squeezing at them. Maker, Andraste, and the Creators save her.

Solas had not intended to push this. He could be patient. Had been patient until he saw her wrapped in another man’s arms. Another _elvhen_ man’s arms, if he could truly call the remnants elvhen any longer. It had caused him much upset and when his reluctant would be consort had walked to him and he scented the other male – well he had to do something.

Having her wrapped around him like this, because the change of position was glorious. Solas isn’t taller than Elle by much, but it was enough to have the excuse to do this. And she reacted without thought – legs curling around his hips, hands shifting from his chest to his shoulders, her nails digging into them slightly. It has him pressing into the cradle of her legs, kissing her harder, exploring her mouth as thoroughly as he could before he needed breath.  To part from her is vexing and yet, he manages. It is a pleasing sight to see his Herald gasping for breath, eyes darkened to a deeper grey. It has a smile curling his lips, has him taking breath and growling for the scent of her that surrounds them.  Already, just from this simple embrace, the remnants scent is diminished.

Elle leans her head back against the cabin wall, drawing deep breaths and wondering how she got herself here. How she walked herself to exactly this place with Solas. _Solas_ of all the men in this town. He had consumed her attention from the first, as much as it pains her pride to admit it. With her head leaned back, Solas takes it as an invitation. He nuzzles into the curve of her neck on the right side, breathing deeply, which is curious to her. Alhannon had never – she squeals, legs curling around him and squeezing as he bites into her neck. Not so deep as to pull blood from her, but hard enough to take her by surprise. Certainly, enough to leave a mark. Her reaction has him groaning, pressing forward against the cradle of her legs.

The nails of her hands dig into his shoulders as she whimpers. They cannot go past this. She will not capitulate to that, here. Not now, not with Alhannon likely searching for her while they dallied. And what if Calen came to look for her? Her mind ricochets with thoughts that make her blood turn cold even as Solas heats it again. His lips and tongue soothe where he’d bitten her until she is squirming in his hold, and she feels him smirking against her skin.

He shifts to, she assumes, give the same treatment to the other side of her neck when he pauses, ears tilting just a touch. Had she not been so close she wouldn’t have noticed it. His brows pull into a mild scowl and he twists, his hands still holding her, pulling her from the wall. A hand waves, the cabin lights with candle light.

He walks her quietly to a chair before the fire and sets her in it. Dumbfounded the young woman lets go of him easily, watching him in askance as he seats himself across from her, laying a book in his lap to cover his arousal.

She hadn’t even noticed it. Well, she had, her **body** had noticed. Now she flushes crimson, the gold of her skin showing it off easily, slapping a hand over the mark he left as Cassandra’s voice filters into the cabin.

“Herald?”

“H-Here, Seeker.” Sending Solas a dark look, Elle scrambles from her chair, heading for the door, tossing it open with a breathless smile at the armored woman. She prays that her blush has settled. Cassandra gives nothing away, though a brow does tick up in question. “Solas was informing me of some of the finer points of telling a spirit from a demon. But, you needed me?”

“Yes, Herald. The Vanguard are ready, it is time to close the breach.” Her body feels as if pushed into a cold bath. All arousal leaves her and she straightens, face smoothing into professionalism, giving the elder woman a curt nod.  He watches as she turns to him, every inch _his_ Herald.

“Solas, will you come to guide the Templars?”

“Of course, it is not as if any other could do it.” His dry pronouncement has her lips tilting into a half smile. Elle turns back to Cassandra and grins, “We’re ready. I don’t think we need more than the Templars, Solas, yourself and some of Leliana’s people as guards, just in case something goes wrong.”

Within the hour, Elle is heading out of Haven with Solas, Cullen, and Cassandra at her side. She strides from the town confidently, Templars marching before them. This – if it worked – would make their quest that much easier to complete. There were assassination plots to stop, an Elder One to deal with as well as the Divine’s murderer. An enormous hole in the fade was something they all needed gone for their piece of mind.

This trip up the mountain is so much different from the one she took just months prior. Gone were the bodies, the screams of fear, the shaking as rocks and demons plummeted from the sky. It was an eerie calm that surrounded the party on their ascent to the ruins of the Temple. Half a mark and they had made it, Elle and Solas head to the same place they had closed the original rift, and wait silently as Cullen sorts the Templar Vanguard.

Elle watches, noting how most tip their head back, a hand to their lips as if in prayer, to hide the use of their Lyrium. It makes her shake her head. It is perhaps, the worst kept secret of Templars – their substance abuse mandated by the chantry. Beside her Solas makes a noise of distaste, it doesn’t rival any sound Cassandra would make, but it is similar.

“Are your Templars ready, Commander?” Giselle surprises herself as she calls to the upper level of the Temple. She seemingly startles Solas, who looks at her appraisingly. But Cullen seems unaffected, looking at the men around him, before concentrating on her.

“Yes Herald. We’re ready.” Now, it is Solas’ turn, and he steps forward confidence in every movement. She barely listens to him, they’ve been over this, on the way up the mountain. She would draw on their will, their brand of ability to fuel the mark and wrench closed the tear. This was simply for their benefit.

When he nods to her, she lets her magic flow free. It’s strange, to do this, to actively drain the ability of others to fuel her own. She’s seen it done before, on the battle field, spirit healers banding together to fuel one another. A dangerous thing, some went too far, and nearly killed themselves. She has also seen it of blood mages. That had been terrifying, gruesome.

But her head shakes, she focuses, drawing on all that allow her to, focusing on the way the breach feels above her.  It is as if the fade is bleeding out. Stuffing from a tear in upholstery. Using the mark, she pulls, intending to draw the pieces together and seal them. The magic that explodes from her takes her breath away. She is awed, and a little nervous, but Elle focuses. The Enchanter narrows her eyes, tugs and tugs at the Breach. Pulling as much power as she dares, Elle wrenches the tether from her to the Breach. For a horrid moment, it resists, flexes, and then snaps shut abruptly. The backlash from it sends Elle flying, and she hits the ground hard. She feels – so tired. Her head lolls to the side, vaguely she hears Cassandra and Solas yelling her name before she fades into the blessed darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't skin me alive yet. Just wait. Wait for the next chapter, we've come to the true beginning. The next chapter will also likely be quite long.


	18. The Destruction of Haven

Solas runs down the mountain with Giselle in his arms, heart beating fast. He can hear the Seeker and Templar’s boots pounding down the path behind him. The backlash, he had not thought to tell her to pull gently on the blasted Breach. Void take him. He could not be sure how much information would be too much.

Now he needs get Elle somewhere to heal her. He hadn’t been fast enough to cushion her fall, and the way her head had bounced – Fenedhis!

The guards to not question as he races through the gates, though much of the cheering stops when they see him. That damnable remnant yells after him, follows him as he makes for Elle’s cabin. He doesn’t deal with it until he’s got her laid out her bed, their staves likely captured by the Seeker and carried with her. He is pouring magic into her, checking over what damage may have been caused. It strikes Solas, that this is a perfect opportunity. His Herald is teaming with mana, having pulled energy from over a dozen Templars, and the residual magic of the breach.

He can use this, he can fix her, make her what she should have been. It has been on his mind, but not ever consciously addressed, for weeks. Giselle is so human, so fragile, so wrong, and yet her being calls to him, he desires her more than he’s ever desired anyone in his long-lived life. But her condition appalls him, offends him. Just as the knowledge she’d taken a remnant into her bed - bore it a child - offends him.

This, at least, he can fix. He can right her. It is decided and Solas threads his magic into her, carves runes into the well of mana residing in her. It is tedious work, and when the remnant bursts into the cabin, Solas doesn’t think, simply reacts. A burst of mental energy sends the man flying, slapping into the door. What he does not expect, is the assault in return. Twisted healing magic grabs at him and he grits his teeth to keep from yelling. Healers could always be vindictive bastards, and with their knowledge of the body- they are some of the most dangerous people in Thedas. Bearing his teeth as he pauses in his work, feeding just a touch of energy into the mark to make it flair and Giselle flail in pain, the god-spirit addresses her former lover.

“Get out. I have to heal her.”

“I’m a healer – more skilled than you.”

“Oh? Is that why you just attempted to tear my blood from me? While I work to save the life of your child’s mother!” He pushes a touch more energy into the mark, and Giselle lets out a low, keening, wail.  “Get out, I do not care if Sylaise herself taught you, you will not touch her.”

Alhannon, a terrible name for the remnant, goes white, and then red, but sweeps from the cabin, slamming the door behind him. Solas returns to his work. He lets his smile out when he hears the resigned nature of the swearing coming from outside.

Alone now, without worry anyone would question how long it takes to heal a simple concussion, Solas immerses himself in golden toned woman’s magic. It’s fascinating to him, how she can be so teaming with Magic, while her thread to the fade is pulled taught. Little mana is returning to her, and that is what had caused the fainting.

But, Solas is not worried about that right now. He turns instead, to where her magic dwells, and it is slow going to find it’s home. There he places more glyphs, carves more runes. Many of these had been taught to him and Mythal alone, no one would be able to undo his work. Every layer of magic he works in is a piece to the puzzle. Hidden away within her so they might never be found, and if they are, not all can be removed. The sun sets, red on the horizon as he works, pouring energy into his great work. When all is done, he withdraws, little by little, from the depths of Elle and her magic. Just before he is free of her completely, he nudges at the thin tie to the Fade she has, and bolsters it. He can feel an immediate difference. He has drained himself, but it will be worth it. He has laid the work to fix her – a slow process, but necessary.

The Elder checks her head once more, just to make sure she has no concussion any longer and looks at her hand to make sure his energy had not caused the mark to break free of its reigns. Satisfied she has no swelling in her brain, nor the mark broken free, he seats himself beside her bed, back against the wall, and slips into the fade to rest and recharge. He does not seek Giselle- Sophia out, rather his dearest friends to seek their opinions on what he has done.

It isn’t an hour later when he feels her waking beside him. Immediately, Solas bids good bye to his friends, and wakes. Already he feels better, and sends a pulse of magic over Elle to make sure she is all right. Nothing is amiss, and his enchantments are taking hold of her.

“Solas?”

“Ah, _ma fenor,_ I am glad to see you unharmed.” He shifts to a crouching position by her bedside, smiling at her beatifically when she rolls to face him.

“I feel as if I’ve been run over by a druffalo, and then stuffed.” Her words are drowsy, and the look of her like this is endearing.  He reaches a hand out and traces the curve of her face. What he would not give to have her without the damnable hair wrap on. But, soon. Soon. He would be patient, he has been so far.

“You have been, in a way, the magical backlash knocked you for quite the fall, and having pulled so much from the Templars, you have quite a magical pool at your disposal for the moment.”

Her eyebrows dart up, flirting with the line of the wrap, and he chuckles low in his throat. The idea of pulling magic from Templars is foreign to her, but he knows that is what has been done. The quicklings are so ignorant of themselves. But he would teach them when his plans came to fruition. He would not make the same mistakes twice.

“Do you feel up to leaving the cabin, I am sure your…Alhannon is worried for you, and there is a celebration going. I can hear the music, no doubt it’s being kept to the town center out of deference for the healing tents and you.”

“Alhannon? Oh bugger,” she shoves herself up, wincing slightly, and pulling at her wraps. They tumble down around her and she sighs gently. “Maker, my head hurts. But, let me go – let me go deal with him, and then, maybe, we can get some food and join the others.”

“Of course, _ma fenor_. I will escort you if you’ve no protest?” The God watches her carefully as her eyes widen. He is aware he has been a bit assertive of late, this softness surprises her. But it’s not unwelcome as a smile pulls her lips and she nods, swinging her legs from the bed.

“I don’t mind. Though, I ask you give Alhannon and I space. There is so much between us…” her voice trails off and his heart seizes in a jealous fury.

“Giselle –“

“Elle, or Sophia, or Sophie, Solas.” Her voice is firm, and she pops off the bed onto the floor, her hand offered to him. “I won’t keep telling you what I prefer to be called.”

“Sophie, then.” It gives him great joy to take the name the remnant had used for her for himself. “I do not feel comfortable leaving you with him unattended. He barged in here, demanded access to you and when I reacted instinctively, he attacked me blatantly. His magic – it’s meant for healing and he has let it twist.” There is no small amount of vindictiveness in him in telling Giselle this. Yes, he was worried about the boy taking her from him, but not overly so, not now. What he is more interested in is her reaction to attacks on him, on the state of her former lover.

The God-Spirit is not disappointed, his human’s face clouds and twists up in disbelief and worry. “He – he wouldn’t. Alhannon is a spirit healer. He had no affinity for things like entropy, he was too gentle for that.” Her voice breaks, pain evident in the words. Solas only sighs, head ducking as his hands fold behind his back.

“He may have been when you were both little more than children, but there is a darkness to him now, Sophie. If you cannot let me go with you to speak with the man, at least be cautious. He came with the Spy-Master’s agents, and I do not know if that means he was in Orlais with the child or part of the rebellion that was safely moved here.”

Elle’s heart throbs in her chest, but she listens. How many of her fellows had been torn from where their souls naturally rested? How many had learned to twist and pull and cause pain without killing? The dozens who had never once thought to kill but embraced death the night their circle fell? If Alhannon had done the same, she would mourn the boy she knew, but not take for granted the need to survive.

How could she fault the man for wanting to live when all wanted them dead? She’d had to murder a teacher that had claimed they should allow themselves to be annulled. They’d blocked the doors to the apprentice rooms and Elle did what she must to save those too young yet to defend themselves. How can she fault him when she had done terrible things in the name of survival as well? Solas doesn’t understand. He had been spared that terrible need.

“Have we all not done things we regret in the name of survival?” Her words are soft, sorrowful, as she moves toward the door of the cabin. Solas’ eyes betray his shock. The mage had never noticed before now just how expressive those eyes of his were. His face may be placid, but those eyes, they were windows into his mind and emotions. She leaves before she is convinced to stay. The cool air swirls around her, jarring her as she heads toward the Tavern. The town is alight with torches and the night filled with song, merriment. A soft, indulgent smile pulls at Giselle’s lips. The people of Haven had needed this, a victory after long months of unease. Perhaps this would help to heal some of the rifts the Divine’s death caused, perhaps it would show the world mages were not always to blame for the strife people faced. 

The Herald crosses through the town, and when people reach for her, this time she does not deny them. She is swung around in impromptu dances, making her head throb insistently, but the young woman doesn’t protest. She instead throws her head back and laughs joyously. She could not let worry or sorrow have her tonight. It would cheapen the deaths it had taken to get here. No, she would honor every sacrifice made to close the Breach in the fade.

In the tavern, Sera is already dancing on a table. The young elven woman isn’t drunk just yet, but she is jovial, rowdy and as crass as ever. Vivienne is in the tavern as well, looking on with only mild amusement at those singing and frolicking. Alhannon is absent, but Varric is there. He claps her on the back, offers to swing her around the dance floor once, and she goes willingly enough. When she stumbles out of the tavern, still laughing, it is right into Krem, who was surrounded by the other fellows of Bull’s Chargers. When the lot of the realized who she was, they sent up a rowdy cheer, Bull lifting her up over his head without a single pause. He paraded her toward the town circle, the chargers all behind him singing her praises.

In the crowd, she spotted Calen, who watched her with awe so bitingly pure it made her heart swell. But still, no sign of Alhannon. When she’s put down, Elle is swept up by Solas. His arm wraps around her waist, his hand grasps hers, and they are off, dancing with the others, his magic swelling and washing against her, sinking into her skin with a subtle spell. Thankfulness at the gesture is communicated with a soft smile, one returned with a gentle twitch of lips.

Her eyes flash and shine in the dim light of night and fire. Solas feels his spirits soar – an immediate sign his transformative magics are taking hold. He spins her, watches as the thick main of white hair flairs around her, watches the way her coat wraps around her body before he pulls her back in once more. This moment is one that will echo in the fade for centuries to come, the swell of happiness, of triumph, spirits press against the veil to watch. This moment, these people, these songs, will never be forgotten.

At some point, Alhannon shows up, his smile hard as he catches Giselle out of Solas’ arms. Jealousy radiates from him. A staccato heartbeat pounds against the shorter woman’s breast as he wheels her away from her chosen. There is no question, her former lover wants her alone. The dark look on his face says more than words ever could.

As she is about to say something, the sudden electric feel of an army of mages hits her. The sound of the bells, panicked cries and the Commander’s declaration of an approaching force pulls her from Alhannon’s grip. Together they run toward the gates and chaos that waits outside of them.

 

 “Vivienne!” Elle’s scream is desperate across the town’s court yard, barely just barely sounding above the din of screams and desperate calls to rally. She needed someone to help her. Someone had to get to her son, his father had disappeared after taking a rather serious looking blow. Elle could not find him, but needed an ally to help her. She and Vivienne did not get along philosophically, but surely the elder woman would help her.

A spell crashes against her shield and she whips fire back in the direction the spell had come from. Damn them. Damn them all for this. For selling themselves to Tevinter, for becoming exactly what Thedas expected, feared. Her fury fuels her spellcasting and Giselle knows tonight the demons will come for her. How many times will she have this same thought? How many times will she give in to emotions that twist things into horrors?

Spells volley and then there is a cry, reedy, short. Her foe is done. She turns and taps into ice. Her weakest school, but Elle will do what she must to make sure all survive this battle. She is determined that as many as she can manage will survive. Not all, never all, but as many as she can manage. The Fade step has her across the court yard, and next to the Knight Enchanter in seconds. They fight together, taking down abominations before a short, sinfully short reprieve comes. It is then Elle grasps the elder woman’s hand.

“Vivienne, please, find Calen, find all the children of Haven, get them to safety. I trust none but you to do this. You’ve the skill to keep them all alive.”

Shock flashes in the darker woman’s eyes before they steel, her full lips flatten into a line and she nods. “Of course, darling, keep the rest of them alive. I will keep hope safe.”  Within a breath, Vivienne is gone, moving with a ferocity that Giselle has to admire, has to respect.  She can only do so for a moment, before a mind blast pushes her into the snow and the rage returns. Later, later, much later, Elle will pray, she will purge these feelings that are dangerous. Right now, she will do as she must. She is determined.

Potion bottles litter the ground and the Herald cuts a bloody, fire scorched swath through the Venatori mages. She can feel mana swell and extinguish in equal measure around her on the field. The screams and cries of the people drive her on. It did not matter whose face she recognized, or how the way a spell was cast made her hair stand on end, this was not a sparring match, she could not save anyone if she faltered – and so she cuts down people she had known. It feels like hours since she lost sight of Alhannon, hours since she’d sent her inner circle to save as many as they could. Now she uses her magic to help the guards keep the doors closed, to bar it. When it is done, she tells them to run, and runs after them.

There are so many mages pouring into the town. Some look crazed, others look serene and far too many have been corrupted. She cuts them down without remorse, resolving to feel it later. Later, after it was done, later when they had survived, later when the Maker weighed her soul. Her hair is out and singed by the time she finds Solas, his clothing looking as bad as hers, Adan and Minaeve with him, both coughing badly. She throws them two of her restoration potions and goes to her lover.

“Are you alright?” Her hands slide against his side, looking for damage. Chilled fingers catch her too warm ones and he nods, face grave. “I will live, Sophie. We’ve to get them to the chantry. The Templar – Lisette? She is holding the door for us.”

She nods and they run, pausing only to cast barriers and throw spells. Her body thrums on lyrium, and it makes her stomach turn, but there is no recourse. She will do what she must. It is a mantra, it will keep her moving. It –

“MOTHER.” The scream makes her blood run cold. Though she’d met the boy only days ago, she knew that voice. Without a look to Solas, she summons frost again and darts up the stairs. The boy could not die. Calen could not be hurt, she could not lose him. Not him. Not him, Maker do not take him.

Vivienne was unconscious, Lisette slumped against the Chantry doors, and her son, her child stood over the First Enchanter brandishing a short sword. For him, it looked more like it was a broad sword, but still he brandished it. She rushed forward, up the last stairs, and an abomination collides with her. The scuffle is desperate. The demon to survive and Elle to get to her son. She falls through tents and they go up in flame, it crashes into a trunk and screams its fury. Whoever this had been, they were strong, and now it was going to cost them their life. The herald prayed it would not cost her sons. Another scream, the clash gets louder as the retreat slows to a trickle. More death rattles and cries, and Elle is fast depleting the lyrium in her veins the mana coiled tight within her body. Calen cries again and Elle’s mind starts to unravel. This cannot be, she will not lose him.

 _I will help you_. The voice that takes up residence with her in her mind makes her falter. There is nothing honeyed about it, no rage to it, no despair or sorrow. _I will help you, and then I will leave this place. We will save them together_.

Her magic rushes through her, and her staff is thrown to the side, lest it break under the onslaught of channeling. Fire rips through the abomination and she can sigh with relief, thanking the spirit bolstering her. But her heart drops, the battle had taken her from the courtyard before the chantry. She races back to it. Faster, faster, they call on frost and rip through the air, the taste of fade on their lips. The scene that greets them makes her wail.

Solas is supporting Vivienne barely, with Calen in the middle, his barriers flickering as fast as he can put them up. Alhannon is there, but his magic bleeds black rather than blue. And they are surrounded. The Chantry doors cannot open that way.

No. No. They would save them. They had come this far, they would not fail. Fire springs up, Alhannon is charging forward aura radiating power as he fights for them against abominations and Venatori. But, something is wrong. His magic feels wrong. His magic had ever been gentle, careful. This stings, even without it being directed at her. Her hands shift, they trace the glyphs and yell them into being. Spells come one after the other after the others. The enemies dwindle until there are no more. Where exhaustion should come over her, she stays standing, stays walking.

“Alhannon –“their breath freezes. There is bloody gash in his middle. They stop just short of him, a healing spell on their lips. The Chantry doors open and Solas is shoving everyone inside, ready to turn around and grab the last two as well when the male makes him pause.

“Herald.” His voice is wrong, the tone is wrong, the - . His eyes meet hers and the heart in her chest breaks into pieces. Black eyes. Pure black without an iris. His lips are bloodless, blue, skin so pale. Solas shuts the chantry door while Calen yells and Cullen pulls him inside. Her older – was he anything to her yet? Solas looks like he would rather fight, but has little choice with the Commander’s grip on him.

“It’s good you survived, Vhenan’ara. Maybe now things will be as they should.” His hands twist, magic bombards her, tries to twist her thoughts. A pained yell for it to stop rends the air, the Herald not realizing it came from her as she stumbles back to the doused fire where Leliana’s tent once stood. He advances, brows furrowed, displeasure in his face as the magic does not take hold. Elle will not be twisted, nor will she allow the spirit who helped her be corrupted like this. She will not suffer a demon in Alhannon’s body.

“Maker turn his gaze on you, Vhenan.” The words are choked and Elle begins the one skirmish she had never thought to fight. Part of her quails, shrinks, tries to turn away, but the spirit. The spirit drives her, the spirit will not fail, will not let her fail. The magic he uses, the ferocity with which he attacks, Elle cannot have hoped to live without the spirit by her side. It pulls long dead magic from the fade and presses it into her mind. Spells to stop the sickly potent entropy magic he wields with such terrifying precision.

“Alhannon, please! You cannot capitulate. Come back to me.” A desperate plea, and the demon within her first love laughs. His mouth parts in a terrifying smile.

“He’s been gone for years. Your man gave in when his circle fell. I promised to help him find you – now this body is mine.” Whatever the Dalish man had made a deal with, Elle could not guess. Determination did not seek to figure it out either. They focus on surviving as the Dragon circles overhead and more mages pour into the remains of Haven.

Her magic is spent when Alhannon falls. And she thrusts herself through the chantry doors, falling to her knees just inside. Hiccupping dry sobs come and she lets it for just a moment before boots come into her view. Gauntleted hands take her arms and haul her up. The Commander’s worried face before her in moments.

“We thought we’d lost you.” His voice is low, rough with having been screaming orders.

“No. I am here. I am here.”

“We’ve done all we can, but our position is not good. That dragon has stolen back any time you might have earned us,” the Commander looks as harried as she ought to feel, but the spirit inside her won’t let her falter. She’s too, too.

 _We are determination_.  The whisper makes her miss what Cole has said, though she does not miss Cullen’s words.

“I don’t care what it looks like; it’s cut a path for that army, they’ll kill everyone in Haven.” The pronouncement make the spirit in her go still. That cannot happen, they must find a way to prevail.  Their mind swirls with possibilities all most fanciful than the next. They miss most of the conversation but come back to Cullen’s proposal of an avalanche and it is not the solution. Burying their people to die a slow death? It is unacceptable. This Elder one cannot have so many lives, not today and not tomorrow.  Elle – Determination – They open their mouth to speak and Cole beats her to it. Roderick tells them of the path and they elate. They can save their people. Use the avalanche as a distraction buy the survivors time.

It is a very quick discussion, and Giselle makes it known she will do this. Solas protests, she wonders where he came from, Vivienne and the rest voice the same misgivings. They shake them off. This is the way to their people surviving, it is not up for debate.

“I am doing this.” Her voice is flanged, and it makes her internally wince. Three sets of eyes train on her like hawks but she does not back down. “Vivienne, Iron Bull, Dorian, Varric, Sera, Blackwall – you will take the survivors and advisors, get up that path. Cullen, signal me when you are clear. Solas, Cassandra, Cole, come with me, get me as far as that trebuchet and then run.” A chorus of protests and she slaps her hands against one another, her eyes blaze.

“No. This is not up for debate. We will not capitulate to death today. Those people in the chantry _will_ survive. The Inquisition _will_ go on. If I must do it myself I will. I will do what I must to keep these people safe. You all came here to fight against the forces that had killed the Divine, that had torn the veil asunder, now choose to help me keep the town alive!” Silence settles after her little speech and determination coils within her, approval radiates from it.  Cassandra and Cole agree, but Solas looks betrayed. He looks angry.

“Sophie – “

“Solas, choose. Help me, or help the people.” How ironic that his words just days earlier are coming back to haunt him in a fashion. She watches as his ears droop just a touch and his eyes deaden. He agrees.

They all grab potions, and Elle makes a show of taking lyrium. She takes a restorative as well and needs neither of them. The spirit is numbing her to pain and keeping her connected solidly to the fade. When the four walk out the chantry doors, they hear Cullen instruct to guards to stay for the stragglers. Her magic simmers beneath her skin, and Elle surges forward. Each spell she casts is precise, her movements surer than they have ever been. With the fires and torches out, it does not occur to her she should not be able to see as she can now. It does not register to her than her human companion who should be at the fore lags a few steps.  

Determination simply drives the woman forward, blood splatters and spells hit her, but Elle doesn’t stop. She downs a potion and keeps going. A bloody path is once again cut to the last standing trebuchet. Another battle, another set of dead bodies, her muscles strain as she cranks the siege machine’s wheel to reorient it. Finally, final it is where it should be.

“Go! Go now. Get out of here.”

“Gisel-“

“GO!” She yells it fierce as she can, and then the dragon comes. There was no choice for them now. Her companions run, not hesitating but all carry pain in their eyes. Cassandra’s hand is like a vice around Solas’ arm as she all but drags him away. Elle quietly tells them all good-bye as she watches from the dirt and flames. It is a small blessing that Determination stays with her even as the Archdemon lands, as a darkspawn walks through the fire to accost them. With every word and every movement, he makes Elle thanks the spirit, the maker, anyone listening for the time she has had. She prays for just a little more, just a few moments longer, to see her people safely on the other side of this.

 Whatever had heard her granted her wish. She and her spirit have time enough to see the flare, to hear the mark cannot be removed, and to experience the pain of their ribs cracking against the trebuchet. They know the feeling of adrenalin and endorphins surging through them as they release the projectile from its prison and make a desperate run for safety. When they fall into the mine, neither spirit nor woman knows anything but darkness.

It is blistering cold that draws Giselle from the darkness. She lays beneath snow, on top of wood, and utterly in the darkness. Her spirit stirs, but it is weak now, and only lends her energy. It has been too long in the real world.

 _I will stay as long as I dare. I will help as long as I am able_. The whisper is gentle and Elle cannot do more than be thankful. She pushes herself to stand, fights down the nausea, the vertigo, and takes tentative, slow, steps forward. Her body aches now the spirit cannot numb her to it – it is using all its will to keep her moving forward. It helps her climb when she must, and eases her falls when she needs to jump. She fancies that it lets her see in the thick darkness that surrounds them.

Only when the spirit retreats upon hearing the wails of despair does she realize it hadn’t been helping her that way. When the mark flairs and she rips the veil to send the demons back, she wonders at how this has happened. The cold drives her forward, only for her to collapse against the mine entrance when the wind cuts into her like so many knives. Broken sobs grip her, her body sinks to the floor of the mine and the grief takes her over. The mage doesn’t know how long it lasts before the gentle tide of determination suffuses her again. It pushes her on, it draws her tight so she will not fail, and only when she can hear voices, see flames, does it start to withdraw from her. It murmurs soothing words to her and Elle drops face first into the snow, she does not hear the yells of Cassandra, nor feel the bite of Cullen’s gloves as he roughly turns and grabs up the unmoving woman. She does not see or hear their quiet worry when her body glows as the spirit finally departs a soft good bye floating in her mind.

“Vhenan’ara.” Elle’s head rolls, eyes opening slowly. The eerie green sky of the Fade greets her. “Sophie.” Her head turns, and Solas sits at her side. He looks tired, but relieved. His hand is clasping hers and the younger mage squeezes his fingers reassuringly.

“Solas. You survived, I am so-“

“You stupid, stupid girl.” His voice cracks, and Elle flinches. “You were willing to die. To leave your son, after having killed his possessed father. You were willing to leave us all.”

“I had to save you. There was no better choice.” Weak words, weak reasoning. Solas plows over it with his distress.

“One of the inner circle could have done what you did. One of them could have fired the trebuchet. You did not have to do it. You should not have! So much rides on your abilities Giselle. So much of – we. I – I will not lose you to your fool hardy notions of becoming a savior to these people.”

“It isn’t like that,”

“Isn’t it?”

“No! It is not –“

“You took a spirit into yourself, Giselle. It could have corrupted itself, it could have corrupted **you**. You nearly died in the snow. Had Cole not heard your pain, had he not been with us we would have lost you. Never again, do you hear me? Never again. I could not find you here, I could not wake you there. That is how close you were to death.” His voice if fierce, eyes a blaze and the edges of him are – are fuzzy. As if he is bigger than his form can hold and the fear, rage, desperation was making it hard for him to hold onto a sense of self. Elle shifts, slow, because even here, every part of her aches, her fingertips hurt, her toes are stinging still, and she thrusts herself into his hold, against his chest.

“I am sorry, Solas. I had to do it. If I hadn’t that _thing_ would have followed us, it would have killed everyone. I couldn’t let that happen. I couldn’t see you all dead just so I could survive. Better that I die and the rest live – “

“That is never the better way. I will not accept that, not from you.” His hands catch her face, tilt it up so he may look at her. “Never again, Giselle-Sophia.”

“Solas.” Stubborn pride fills her but, Elle is too tired, too sore to fight this point. The pain of losing Alhannon is too fresh. Even if she’d let him go, to have his blood on her hands. “Ma Nuvenin, Solas. Ma Nuvenin.” It is simply easier to give in and let him win this time.

Elle lets him curl around her, lets him drag her into a position that is comfortable for them both. Silence surrounds them, wraps around the pair like a cloak might against the wind. Eventually the dream starts to fade and the waking world creeps into her awareness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vhenan'ara - heart's desire / play off of ma vhenan - my heart  
> ma fenor - my precious one  
> Ma nuvenin - as you wish
> 
> So this - it's not everything I wanted it to be. But, the main points are here. Likely this will be the chapter to be rewritten and expanded on several times until the prose matches the vision. Still, I do hope you enjoyed it. Already Elle is changing! A small change, but still a change.


	19. Realization and the Weight on her Shoulders

Giselle floats to awareness sweating and immobile. Arms are banded around her, large hand splayed possessively, or protectively, over her stomach, the other resting just under her throat, across her collarbone. The heat of the hands has her squirming, cheeks blazing when she realizes those hands are on her bare skin. A quick inventory reveals smalls and breast band are still in place. There is skin pressed solidly against her back, she can feel the steady breaths of her companion – no break of cloth, so a man. Taller than her, he is practically curled around her, knees tucked under hers, her hips cradled by his, and bless the maker he is covered. There are several possibilities as to who is pressed behind her, Cole, Blackwall, Solas, Cullen, Dorian – though she doubts Dorian, he isn’t quite this much taller than she is. Cullen, Solas, Blackwall, and Cole, however could. The Iron Bull could, but these hands are much, _much_ smaller than his are.

Her heart pounds as she stays looking resolutely at the wall of her tent. She wasn’t about to move and wake her apparent heater. The awkwardness was enough to send her to an early grave if nothing else. The more time passes, the more Giselle becomes aware of her body. She aches, her fingers and feet most of all, but her ribs are still sore, her hips feel strange – all of her, truth be told, hurts in some fashion or another. Her skin prickles uncomfortably under the onslaught of heat being generated in the bedroll she is currently sharing and the heat from the fire blocking the air that should threaten from the tent flaps. It’s near stifling and she longs to move. She can’t see where her staff is – Maker she doesn’t remember if she had the presence of mind to even grab her staff. It was likely lost like so much of Haven had been. Her clothes are not within her sight range either.

Her partner isn’t even within sight range. Sniffing delicately, she tries to figure out who might be curled around her. Leather, paper, ink, herbs, sharp and spicy – _Solas_. She should have known. As if the man would allow someone else near her in this state of undress. He had barely tolerated Alhannon keeping her in his lap while she was fully clothed in public. Her fingers clench as her heart twitches painfully. Alhannon. He’d dealt with a demon to find her. Maker save him, Creators save his soul. How could he have been so stupid? For her, of all people, why did he deal to find her? Why throw away his life for her?

Tears prick at her eyes and she shifts slightly in the room she does have, her face shoving against the musty bedroll pillow. He was dead. She had killed him, ripped the light out of his eyes, stilled the beating of his heart. It did not matter how many times in training someone told you that an abomination was no longer your friend or loved one, that to cut them down would be a kindness. The fact was that it hurt; the fact was that she’d been told to murder her fellows and she had carried out that edict. She’d murdered the man who helped create her child. Her chest seizes as she tries to stifle her tears.

Maker save her soul, she took life. It hadn’t truly hit her until this moment. Or perhaps she had become numb to it during the chaos of the war. She’d taken so many lives in the name of survival. Killed her mentor who would leave children to die, killed the Templars sworn to protect, killed the Templars devoted to the death of all the mages, killed mages who would not fall in line with the rebellion. She turned her staff on men and women who acted out of desperation, those who had taken advantage of their freedom, and hurt others without discrimination. It didn’t matter the cause; her fire had turned their last moments into a burial pyre. She had played god and killed. She chose to rip life from their bodies. And it is all crashing down around her now. Because of Alhannon.

That man, he had almost been happy when she came out on top of their battle. He had smiled, just a touch of one before the blade of her staff had pierced his hear. Maker, she could see the black blood on his lips still, could smell the charred flesh, feel the way her own body had been twisted by his magic. This was not how any of this should be. Her sobs become more pronounced without her permission, she shakes in the arms of her protector and doesn’t realize it. Not until those arms tighten and lips press to her bare shoulder.

“Vhenan’ara?”

“S-Solas.” His voice should comfort her, but it just makes her chest tighten more. Chosen someone new to take into her heart mere hours before killing the last to hold it. What kind of woman was she? Was Solas safe from her? Likely not, if he opposed the Inquisition, betrayed them, Elle knows she would be called on to turn her blade against him as well. It makes her skin crawl. What was she becoming?

“Vhenan, calm yourself. The danger has passed.” His words are whispered, his face tucked against her hair as he starts to rock her gently. There isn’t much room to move within the bedroll on the cot, but somehow, Solas manages it. Yet, the tears keep coming.

How was any of this in the Maker’s will? How could the murder of multiple people, perhaps hundreds or thousands, be condoned? How many more will fall in the name of stopping Corypheus – to find the Divine’s murderer? How much blood would stain the ground the Maker had made. How could he allow this? Even if his gaze was turned away – surely, he could hear, surely, he knew. Why did he do nothing to stop this madness? How could she possibly be the Herald of his Bride? How could the blood spilled be any kind of sacred or holy?

Solas continues to rock her as she sobs, her cries verging on wails. She feels when a barrier goes up around them. He is keeping this quiet, between himself and whoever else might be inside the tent. No one could know the Herald of Andraste was breaking down. Elle knew that already. It wasn’t how people needed to see her. Strength, confidence, that was what the people needed from her. That was what they sought. Giselle-Sophia was no fool, she was as noble as she is a mage and weakness cannot be tolerated. In this moment, she couldn’t give a shit about any of that. Her legend could be tarnished, her reputation shredded into tatters the more of herself came to light in these pain filled moments. It didn’t matter. How could it when they were no better than the one’s they now knew to hunt?

“We are all murderers.” Her hiccupping sobs lessen in intensity but continue to come as she speaks. The words are meant only for Solas, because after all the bullshit, the pulling of pig tales, the possessiveness, the borderline too bold, Giselle trusts him. She will let him see her for her truth. And if he leaves? What does it matter? Calen was in her grasp now, and would be for so long as he desired. The son would always outweigh the lover’s presence. Solas could leave her if he desired, and Giselle would march forward undeterred.

“We are at war, Sophie. In war, there are no clean hands.” His soft return makes her pause. War. War against the Templars, war against the Mages, war against Corypheus. Would Thedas survive it all?

“When it is over, what will be left that has not been razed by fire and death?”   
“We cannot know that, Giselle-Sophia. In this war, we can only keep moving until the last sword has been drawn and last breath taken. Thedas will survive, as it has for thousands upon thousands of years.”

“I am not so sure it will.” Her voice is rough, quiet as she twists, tangling her legs with Solas’ within seconds, burying her face against his neck. “Thedas will run with blood before that thing is put down.”

“It will not be the first nor last time Thedas sees such bloodshed. It has survived it. It will again. Please, Sophie, rest. Your magic is severely depleted still, your hands and feet still ice. You must rest, lest we lose you.” Fingers in her hair rasp against her scalp, the hand on her back creating soothing circles. The crying jag has exhausted her. Likely, if what Solas said was true, she would not be doing more than lying here for a good while. Magical depletion could be deadly, her wounds had been numerous. She sighs against his neck, and settles against him, forcing her body to relax as the Fade calls.

 

Solas traces a finger over the shell of a still round ear. Fragility was to be expected. Her trial had been harrowing, to face such a man as Corypheus and come out without fear or doubt – impossible. And his little consort to be was still human, still young, still idealistic and faithful to her maker, she would not harden or rise above such things for many months, perhaps years, yet.

But he can wait. He will be patient. This is far too delicate, too important, to rush.


	20. Mourning

Two days, she sleeps solidly for two days, her magic slowly replenishing itself, her body knitting itself together under his hand. She shivers uncontrollably whenever he left the bedroll and within moments of learning such, the Advisers, leaders, of the Inquisition as it stood told him not to leave her. So, he had not, he had kept curled around her, warming her with magic, body and fire. His magic poured into her, healing the stress the spirit had put on her without knowing.

She had been so close to death without even knowing it. The spirit had kept her whole, but it had nearly killed her too. When the Commander charged into camp, yelling for healers, she had been so pale he thought death had taken her already. Freckles in stark relief of nearly blue skin, finger tips frosted over, boots covered in snow and ice, her armor only moving because Cullen had removed the ice by picking her up. Her hair was lank, frozen, eye lashes covered in crystalized water, lips parted and breath so shallow one could hardly call it breathing coming from between them. His magic had flared with the depth of his unease, at the sight of her. The fires nearest him roared as he strode forward and took her from the human man. He barked for water, for cloth or rags, and disappeared into the camp. His tent was a larger one, meant to be shared, and currently occupied by himself, the magister and the spirit Cole. Outcasts all of them.

Cole had procured the water, while Pavus had built the fire. There was nothing sexual in what happened next, the way he ripped her armor from her and bathed her in tepid water. Nothing that would shock her, nothing to harm her. The rags were rubbed against her skin until she was pink, the last wrapped around her for modesty’s sake while he warmed and healed her with his magic. The bedroll had been opened, her tucked inside it, furs laid over it before he had gone to find food, to give back the rags.

She spoke the second day, coming into lucidity enough for their conversation in the fade. Immediately after she woke, she slept again, and Solas kept himself wrapped around her. Food was brought to them, logs put in the fire. Giselle-Sophia regained her color bit by bit. Each breath sounded like victory too him, every time he pressed an ear to her chest and heard the clear intake of air he praised the spirits. The woman would survive, but she would, apparently, take her time in returning to the waking world. Her mourning was only beginning. He knew it. Heard it in her voice, saw it in the listless glow of her eyes within their dream space. Sleeping on an off, nothing deep enough to dream, Solas watched her, and watched how the Advisers started to succumb to fear. Shouting started the fourth day, and the fifth, when she was warm enough to leave – was when she woke in Mother Giselle’s company.

He watched, from the sidelines, as she dressed carefully, the cool air making her wince. He watched as the Mother wrapped her hair out of sight, buttoned the back of her shift, and helped her into boots. Their conversation was soft, but he heard it. Heard the way Giselle declared the Maker had not saved her, that she had not died, that an Elven man was the reason she yet lived. His spirits soared when she whispered she had lost faith, and saw the way her face hardened as the song began.

Something so simple, those words, that facial expression, yet it gave him hope. Elle would not give up her maker so easily, that was folly to believe it, to take those words at face value. Haven, the dragon, Corypheus, the abomination that had been Alhannon, they all shook her faith. It did not kill it. That would take yet more time. But this was a step, a step in the direction Solas desperately needed her to walk toward. He needed her to come to him. If she didn’t, this was all for nothing. He may be a God, but no God could make a person love them, follow them. He needed her faith in _him_ to grow, her love to replace that she held for maker and man.

It would come. It would come.

“A word, Sophie? Away from prying eyes and ears.” He says it, face hard, as he passes by her. For a moment, the Spirit-God worries he had been too terse. Giselle stayed at the tent for more than ten steps of his, before following. Not looking back at her, he missed the thunder struck look that had crossed her face. He didn’t see the way she began to ice herself over as she followed.

The brazier he lights had long died, lit some two days prior and left to die. A wave of his hand, the smallest push of a tendril of his magical aura and it blazes to life in heatless green flame. Only then does he turn to Elle, and find her more Herald than he has ever seen her before. This visage, aloof, ready, eyes steady but distant, that is what he had seen seldom in camp or during private talks, he saw it when she addressed the Clerics, saw it whenever she met a potential agent of the Inquisition.  It worries him to see it aimed at him.

“You called?” Her tone is detached, far too professional. Solas shrugs it off for now, hand meeting its twin behind his back.

“I impart to you, information, it is of great value and could lay my people low if the wrong ears heard of it. The artifact that the thing, this Corypheus, used to open the breach, to put the anchor on your hand – it is Elvhen in origin.”

“Elven? How can you be sure?”

“I have witnessed their use in the Fade. They were foci for the mage populace. If it were to become public knowledge –“

“It would. Maker. Solas every elf in Thedas would have a target painted on their back. How did he survive the conclave? The vision we saw when we were in the Temple – that was him.”

“I would be interested to know how he managed such a feat. And yes, every elf would be a target if people came to know the object – artifact – of Elvhen origin. Leliana’s people scoured the sight of the Temple, and found nothing. It would be best if we recovered it.”

“He still has it. But yes, we will need to recover it from him, that thing cannot be allowed to stay in hands like his. No one should have that kind of power.” She can remember the way the feeling of the magic from it had crawled up her arm, yanking at where the mark had been anchored.

“You saw it?” His brows raise, interest clear in his eyes.

“He tried to take the Anchor. Tried to pull it from me at the roots. It wouldn’t be removed.” Her voice is tired now, and she stares into the veilfire. “Thank you, Solas. For this. I will make sure the information doesn’t leave the circle of advisors. First, however, we need to get these people out of the snow and biting cold.”

“I have dreamed, and I know where you need to go. Scout out the peaks to the north, there is a place, where the Inquisition will be safe, where it can grow.” He tries to catch her eerie, striking, grey eyes that shine in the firelight.

“I will forever be thanking you it seems. I will alert the Commander, we will leave at first light.” Turning, Sophie- the Herald, turns from him, walking from him without anything more. No mention of having woken in his arms. No mention of their conversation within the Fade. She simply turns her back on him, and strides toward the firelight and people who bow or kneel before her, back ramrod straight, chin tilted to keep her head held high.

He is both proud of her, and baffled. So clearly becoming the roll she had previously not fully embraced, too worried about people, the mission, the war. But the coldness that comes with it; that Solas would rather do without. Sighing, he waves his hand again and the veilfire extinguishes.

 

A week of trekking through the snow, with the Herald and her Advisors in the lead, Solas in step with Giselle, and they find the pass that leads to Skyhold. It was a name that made little sense to Giselle, she was of the opinion there were far more fitting names for the keep that settled on the large flat top of a mountain straddling two different countries. But it was the name Solas gave her, and thus the name that was used. They camped the survivors within sight of the fortress, listened as people sang songs of hope and inspiration, but Elle very visibly holds herself apart from her people now. She does not sit with anyone, instead creating a small fire of her own, sitting and staring into it.

She doesn’t eat, but partakes in water and ale for her own health. The food belonged to the survivors to the soldiers who kept watch over them at night. She, while important, had the weight on her to make it through to Skyhold. Food was a luxury. After what had occurred in the last two years, Giselle did not want that luxury presently. It was shunned, the wrapping of her hair was shunned. It laid down her back in a simple braid, wisps curling around her face.

“Herald, you must eat.” The gruff tenor of the Commander breaks her thoughts one night, when she sways on the log that had become her seat for the night.

“I will not.”  
“Herald – Lady Trevelyan, you cannot continue this. You will die of cold if you do not eat.”

“Give it to the survivors. Give it to the children, to the soldiers, to the widows. Anyone who hadn’t got enough to eat. I refuse food Commander. I will not take a bite until we are within the walls of Skyhold.”

“Why? It makes no sense. We are within sight of the fortress, it has been a week already, Lady Trevelyan, surely –“

“The dead do not have the luxury of even our field rations, Commander. I honor them by taking none myself.” Her voice is hard, and carries on the wind. Sharp eyes slide to him, take in the way his beard is growing in on his face, the dark circles under his eyes. “Each of us honor the dead differently. I will honor them in the way our ancestors did, before the Chantry took hold of us.”

He has no words for her. He stands over her, eyes hard, no understanding why she insisted on doing this. To him, it likely sounded barbaric, or perhaps the notion of a flighty noble. Neither would surprise Giselle. After all, to this point, she had been nearly a different woman. She had laughed, she had argued, she had been expressive. It had felt, if she were honest, as if this was not a war. A story, like those Varric told, that is what it had felt like. Now it was real. The blood on her hands was real, her grief was real, the weight of her position, of the mark on her hand having a real and tangible meaning to her. This plight could truly mean the end of their world as they recognized it if she did not succeed. It was too much to really deal with. So, she grieved, for the woman who hadn’t understood what she was faced with, for the girl who had died in the fire of a Darkspawn, for the men and women who had died when she had not taken things seriously enough. She grieved for Alhannon who had taken his own life months ago – just to find her.

“There is one thing you could do for me, Commander.” The memories of her mother going over the history of Ostwick made her remember. The flash of metal in firelight made the remembered tradition a possibility.

“My lady?”

“Your dagger.”

It is handed to her with a wary look. Again, Giselle cannot blame him for it. She had not explained her need of it. When the hilt weighs heavy in her hand, her braid is taken and the knife set to it. It took several minutes of sawing, but the heavy rope of her hair came free. The cut was lopsided, the left side of her hair longer now than the right that brushed her chin. The dagger is handed back to the Commander, the length of hair, the heft of it, is weighed, and tossed into her fire.

“Good night, Commander.”

“My lady.”

 

“I worry for the Herald.”

At dawn, when the Inner Circle gathered around the advisors, waiting for Giselle-Sophia to emerge from her tent. They stare at their coffee and porridge, and Cullen’s declaration has several heads lifting. Solas keeps his eyes on his food, eating mechanically but listening carefully.

“Why? What did Boss do that’s got you worried?” The Iron Bull was the one to grab the bait, shifting on the log and eyeing the strawberry blonde man. Of course, it would be the ben hassrath agent to take interest in the wellbeing of their leader apparent.

“She won’t eat. Declares she will not until all our people are within the safety of Skyhold. I don’t think she’s eaten since she woke up. And last night, when I offered her rations, she asked for my dagger. She cut her hair, to her chin and burnt it.”

“That shite was down to her butt. Saw it once, when we were washing in a stream. Like snow – she just cut it? Didn’t wrap it up like she normally does?” Sera joins into the conversation, interest in her tone. Porridge flies as she gestures. Vivienne makes an annoyed sound when some flicks onto her leggings.

“She claims to honor the ways of our ancestors? Did the Alamarri cut their hair and refuse food in honor of the dead?”

“No.” Solas speaks up, head lifting from where it was bowed. “Not the Alamarri, but some of the first humans to come to Thedas – there are carved accounts of their traditions. Barely legible, barely intelligible, but the accounts are there. The first men, they chopped their hair off, burning it so no one may hold their soul when family or friends died, and fasted. There wasn’t instruction for the fasting, nor a time frame, I imagine, she has learned of such things, and interpreted them to suit her needs here.”

He watches as Sera’s nose wrinkles in distaste. Josephine and Leliana look curious, but not particularly moved by the revelation. The rest, well, it varies. Solas doesn’t take the time to figure out if the reactions were emotional or political in nature. For Josephine and Leliana – it is most certainly political. He can see the wheels turning. It makes his hackles rise.

“It doesn’t matter, in the long run. She is mourning our fallen, and that is to be commended, respected. The people will see her honoring the fallen, it will just help to rally them. Spread the word as we go into the hold today. By the time, we begin to clear places for tents, it will have become part of her legend. We can keep an eye on her, she is drinking ale, it’s not as if she has no nutrition going into her. Let her mourn.” Be grateful she has not back slid into her chantry teachings. His voice cracks like a whip, enough that Iron Bull gives him a knowing look. Vivienne watches him with interest, mild, and fleeting, but he has caught her eye and that annoys the ancient even more.

His food is cold and he is no longer hungry as Giselle-Sophia finally comes into view. Her armor is battered, leather scuffed, leggings and undershirts torn in places. But she is radiant, resilient. The cut, while ragged on the bottom, suits her. He misses the length of her hair. The way it fell from her wrap and curled around her face like a secret. Yet again, Solas is simply pleased she hasn’t wrapped it again. It was a sign, a good one. He would cherish it for progress.                                                                                                                                 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's disjointed, I know. I'm sorry. Elle is all over the place and Solas is all over the place. This whole point in the game is an emotional roller coaster.


	21. Note

I'm taking some time to go back and revise early chapters. Nothing major, but being 110 pages into this baby, I need to make sure mistakes are found now before it's 200 pages and takes me weeks to go in and find everything that was misspelled/miss worded. Solas and Giselle will be back in no time, better than ever. Or bickering more than ever, who knows. 


End file.
